


Brothers Mine

by inkedinserendipity



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, and subsequently the other two's emotions, featuring: nyota's FUCKING PISSED, relationships: the triumvirate, shameless shameless whump, that's all the relationship i need tbh, the entire point of this is to beat up on spock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-07 12:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7715080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity/pseuds/inkedinserendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago, Vulcan was destroyed. </p><p>Spock retreated for forty-three hours into the solace of his mental wards and created a haven - a safe place, a remembrance of his mother. His core. Everything that he is, what he held dear, he attached to her; to her and the home he had cherished for twenty-eight years. </p><p>He perfected this set of memories, the characteristics that make him who he is, shut the door behind him, and locked it. </p><p>The thing about meditation, though, is that it requires a solid core. And over the past five years, those things which Spock holds dear...well. His priorities have changed a tad. He's met a couple of people that are kind of important to him. But his core hasn't changed. </p><p>Small wounds do not require a complete core to heal; Vulcan physiology requires only the lightest of meditation to heal small things, like broken arms. But being stabbed in the side, punctured through the lung, the heart bent out of shape - that might require a bit of a deeper trance.</p><p>Too bad Spock can't sink into a trance like that.</p><p>And why would Spock, with his final breath, whisper to Jim a Vulcan word he does not even know?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The _Enterprise_ and her crew are slated to remain in Yorktown for another six days, fourteen hours and forty-three minutes. This is a fact for which Spock is not grateful, because gratitude is an emotion; rather, of this he is logically appreciative. While the new-formed _Enterprise_ herself is still under construction, requiring some hefty addendums before she is prepared for deep space, her crew requires time to recuperate as well. Although Spock could never claim the shallow yet vast emotional range experienced by these remarkable humans with whom he has served for three years, his telepathic mind picks up on their distress with relative ease. In fact, upon some particularly tiring occasions, he feels their pain as his own. 

With the captain, this peculiarity is magnified, a feat nigh-unheard-of. Both the captain and - for some reason almost beyond Spock’s comprehension - Doctor McCoy share this effect on his psyche: the fascinating ability to shred his mental shields during bouts of particularly strong feeling. 

Logic dictates that, in the face of such a dangerous adversary to a relatively composed half-Vulcan mind, Spock should flee as far as possible from these two mentally armed humans who are not even aware of their power. Recently, he was afforded an opportunity: to assist New Vulcan in an effort to rebuild his race. 

Yet his refusal of this posting was not logical. 

So he finds himself toiling alongside the crew of the _Enterprise_ , working in every area possible to ensure that the she becomes spaceworthy within the week. Fortunately, for most crew members, reconstruction efforts do not require much of their attention; after the near-disaster averted by Captain Kirk, their respite on the base has functioned more as a shore leave, as most of the work to renovate the _Enterprise 1701-A_ falls to the crews of Yorktown’s Starfleet Command. However, for the command chain, the paperwork and requests and small tasks and sheer petty _details_ are overwhelming.

Being partially Vulcan, Spock is naturally equipped with an attention span and mind for said minutiae far greater than any human’s. As such, it is only reasonable that he assume a large portion of the work necessary to ready the _Enterprise_ for her crew. However much his captain insists he rest and the doctor threatens to hypo him (Spock is beginning to believe that Doctor McCoy’s penchant for stabbing anything that moves is actually an expression of concern, rather than the sheer irritability Spock previously assumed), Spock practically buries himself in various chores.

The first was the report to Starfleet Command. Given that the captain was injured - physically, emotionally and mentally - Spock took upon himself the responsibility of detailing a full account of the _Enterprise_ ’s journey through the nebula. His captain always bears the grief of each lost life as though they were his own family (and, in a way, they are - the crew of the _Enterprise_ , romantic as the idea sounds, function as a family, headed by their own captain, with a heart too large for his own good; this unity has seen them through the previous three years, through disasters small and large, and what makes the crew of the _Enterprise_ the best in the ‘Fleet). Therefore, it is purely logical - to alleviate the suffering of another being - to assume Captain Kirk’s duties, if only for this short period of time. 

Then the task of selecting and sorting new recruits for the Science departments, to fill the considerable gaps left behind by Krall’s wrath, fell to him. The Medical division, technically, should to Doctor McCoy; but under the pretense of Doctor McCoy's incapacitation imbibing Scotty’s “secret” stash, Spock took over those assignments as well. (McCoy would never drink overmuch, for the Doctor is not an irresponsible man; yet the human accepted his gift when Spock wrested his PADD from his hands with surprising grace.) Though the Doctor does not feel as much for the crew one the whole as the captain does, he treats the entirety of the Medical staff as though they were his children, and would sooner tear off his own right arm than hear of their deaths. To force him to read about their replacements, when the tragedy of their passing is still so fresh, would be nothing short of cruelty, one which Spock could easily circumvent, at little sacrifice to himself.

Later, of devising a schedule of their rotations, sorting the ones with exceeding potential, fit to assume alpha and beta shifts, from the ones with less, whom he consigns to gamma. On top of this, he maintains contact with the colony on New Vulcan, sifting through pages and pages of ancient rules that the Ambassador had broken, simply by dying in the manner he chose. Not only did the Ambassador choose not to join his _katra_ with the Katric Ark, a quasi-sacrilege in itself, his will intends to bestow some of his possessions to outworlders. Both of these acts are huge leaps from custom, and to further exacerbate matters, those outworlders are Jim, Bones, and Spock himself - three who will not soon be able to depart from Yorktown. 

Admittedly, Spock has not had time to repair his damaged mental shields, nor to sink into the healing trance that his injured side demands of him. However, he simply does not possess the time for meditation. There is too much to do, too much to be organized, too much to be overseen; and he cannot, in good conscience, allow this work to fall to either the captain or Doctor McCoy, given that their minds are both lesser at handling mental strain than his, and that they are both recuperating in that peculiar human way from grief. The attack on Yorktown occurred less than two days ago - far too little time for humans to recover. 

But this evening, the captain has demanded that Spock “relax for once”. The line was drawn upon the traitorous Doctor McCoy’s report to his captain that Spock has not slept in over five days, an unfortunate fact that prompted his captain’s concern. As much as he is tempted to decline the request (order?) to take time to recover, his captain simply will not let him; his protests are met with threats of court-martial, as Spock recalls ruefully. And though he is fully aware that the captain speaks in jest, he cannot deny that even Vulcans are incapable of working forever. 

Besides, if he is fully honest with himself - and to deny the presence of that which exists, however unfavorable, is illogical - he might enjoy the captain’s company. 

As for that of Doctor McCoy...well, this remains to be seen.

Six days, eleven hours and forty-two minutes until the release of the _Enterprise_ finds Spock outside the Captain’s chambers. Technically, this social gathering will not begin until 1930 hours, and it is only 1918 hours; but knowing his captain as he does, he does not believe that Captain Kirk will mind his early arrival. 

Technically, his voice is part of the captain’s personalized audio-recognition database, and he could hypothetically open the door by speaking his name. But he acquiesces to the Terran custom of knocking. After all, it is polite. 

As he waits, Spock notes that the corridors are unusually cold. Perhaps a flaw in Yorktown’s temperature control systems. 

“Spock!” comes the captain’s overjoyed voice as he opens the door. The captain is one of the few humans who consistently greets his presence with cheer, or at least a friendly overture (barring their first disastrous mission). He has never experienced acceptance on quite the level at which James T. Kirk exudes it, and he doubts he ever will again; the gift that this man has given him is irreplaceable.

Truly, he thinks with a wry, invisible smile, he is tired to be waxing poetic about his captain, however private his mental musings are. 

“Thinkin’ warm and fuzzy thoughts?” 

And there, on time as always, is Doctor McCoy. Perhaps his shields are more frayed than he thought; apparently, some of that warmth wriggled its way onto his face in the form of a small smile. 

“I am incapable of doing so, Doctor. As you well know, Vulcans do not feel such emotions,” he replies evenly, and politely ignores the twin snorts of fond exasperation. 

Excellent. Human sarcasm in surround-sound. 

Already, the captain has made the room his own. That is to say, destroyed anything and everything overly ostentatious - the zealously decorated tablecloths are piled neatly in a corner of the room; the ornate wall-hangings have been turned over, blank sides outward (a precaution against a Kirk tantrum, Doctor McCoy explained to him in an undertone); books thrown astray, scattered around the table, piled by chair legs and wedged between cracks in the sofa, pages filled with dog-ears and the crisp smell of old paper. As he enters, his captain is in the process of shoving the expensive human equipment required for cooking meals of satisfactory nutritional content into one corner while he swears up and down that yes, Bones, he’ll put it back before they leave the Starbase, _promise_. For some reason unknown to Spock, he crosses his heart as he does so, expressing wishes to die. Spock decides that, judging from the exasperation and not panic lighting the Doctor’s face, Jim does not mean this adage literally. 

The captain and Doctor McCoy, Spock is pleased to note, look well enough. Doubtless they have spoken to each other through their emotional turmoil. Haphazard “cleaning” finished, the captain joins Doctor McCoy at his table. This table is situated precariously near the captain’s impromptu bar (Chekov helped him organize his supply, Spock would bet, were he part of a wagering race). Both officials nurse glasses of clear liquid in their hands. 

“C’mon, Spock, join us,” his captain suggests, waving him over with an eager flap of his palm. He nudges the third cup toward Spock as he approaches the table.

Vulcan spice tea, Spock notes appreciatively, inhaling the scent. Already, the smell of such a rare and refined drink eases some of the pain burning in his side. 

“My thanks, Captain.” 

“Jim,” he corrects. More of an automatic reflex at this point, Spock believes, than a genuine request; all three of them well know that Spock uses first names in times of crises. Apparently, for humans, these types of special delegations hold sentimental significance. 

“Of course, Captain,” Spock replies dryly, suppressing a small wince as he forces himself into the chair. 

That earns him a dirty look before the captain proceeds. “Anyway, Bones ‘n I were talking about what we’re gonna do when we get back in space. What do you think?”

“It is reasonable to believe that we will be tasked with carrying out Federation missions.”

That earns him a dual exasperated eye-roll. “Of _course_ , you menace,” Bones mutters at him, rubbing an idle finger around the lip of his drink. Water, from the smell. “But what’re we gonna see? What new, deadly space viruses and homicidal, egomaniacal villains are we gonna encounter when we get back out there, is what he means.” 

“Such a pessimist.”

“More than warranted!” the doctor yelps, waving a hand behind himself. From Jim’s room, the construction of the _Enterprise 1701-A_ is visible through a large window uncannily resembling an Observation Deck. “Look what happened the _last_ time we went out in space.” 

“Doctor, the days in which the _Enterprise_ encounters no trouble far outnumber those in which we find ourselves facing deadly situations,” Spock points out. 

“He's got a point. It's quite logical, Bones,” the captain nods his approval, clearly hiding a smile. 

Bones mutters something unflattering and anatomically impossible before taking a swig of his drink. His irritation is not real, Spock knows, then blinks. Interesting. With mental shield in such tatters as they currently are, it appears that his ability to glean the emotional state of his crewmates has increased. 

Spock is not sure whether he would like for this phenomenon to merit further investigation. 

“So what do you think? Good or bad luck we’re gonna have out there?” his captain asks again as Spock picks up his cup with two hands, grateful for the warmth that seeps through his palms. Perhaps this temperature difference will aid the unusual coolness in his body. The abrupt change causes a small, uncontrollable spasm to run through his leg, forcing it to jump forward and brush sharply against a stack of thick, hardcover books near. Quite the intimidating stack, he notes with amusement. Clearly, the captain has been quite busy with his Tzu and Seuss. 

“About the interesting or the dull missions we are bound to encounter, Captain?”

“ _Jim_. And the interesting, Spock.” 

Spock pretends to mull over the captain’s query. “Given the _Enterprise_ ’s unusually high rate of disasters, I can only assume that we will continue to meet more of the same ilk - that is, disastrously bad fortune.” 

Doctor McCoy makes a patently human, see-what-did-I-tell-you gesture that brings an exaggerated frown to the captain’s face. “Awww, why you gotta be that way, Spock?” Jim pouts, sticking his lower lip out egregiously far. 

“Because he’s right, Jim,” Bones snaps, shaking his finger in the captain’s general direction with much more ire than the situation merits. “Somethin’ goes wrong every month on this ship, an’ you know it!” 

“Oh, c’mon, Bones. It’s not that bad.”

Spock suppresses a tiny shiver. For some reason beyond his ability to ascertain, his physical state is rapidly deteriorating. The throbbing in his chest increases sporadically, growing gradually more intense with each breath Spock takes. This is cause for alarm, he thinks vaguely; but nothing that requires attention at this immediate moment. There is no reason to unduly alarm either of the humans with whom he is currently sharing his time. He shall retire to Sickbay after this - maybe he is due for a checkup, and when better to turn himself over to the wrath of McCoy’s proteges when their beloved mentor is preoccupied keeping the company of his captain? 

Perhaps he should not have delayed so long. But regret is an emotion, so Spock does not feel it; rather, he acknowledges that delaying two days before seeking medical assistance may have been an unwise decision, and...well, he does not decide to, as the humans put it, “do better next time,” for his intentions were to alleviate the burden of the two remarkable humans sitting across from him. Surely such sacrifice is understandable. 

Truly, he thinks blearily, his mental state must be deteriorating as well, for him to be thinking such - dare he say it - sentimental thoughts. 

Then, the captain’s face mere inches from his own makes him abruptly aware that he has been trying to summon Spock’s attention, likely for quite some time. “My apologies, Captain,” Spock says, illogically proud of the unruffled tone with which he delivers his response. “I was distracted.”

Even the doctor is eyeing him with something alarmingly close to worry. “You doin’ all right, Spock?” 

“I assure you, I am functional,” Spock replies evenly, mind filled with horrifying thoughts of McCoy pursuing him around the Starbase, armed with three hypos and one concerned James Kirk. 

Jim - the captain - squints at him critically. “That’s not what he asked.” 

“Captain, I am quite well,” Spock replies. Not a lie, he soothes his ruffled conscience. Merely a necessary prevarication; and besides, his injuries are quite containable with a healing trance. Maybe he has no real need for Sickbay after all, only the comfort of his own quarters.

Seeing the unease still evident on the humans’ faces, Spock rolls his eyes toward the sky. Perhaps so human an expression will alleviate their concerns. Familiarity breeds comfort, does it not? 

“All right,” the captain says, subsiding reluctantly. Even so, Spock can feel their worry as his own - an alarming increase in his emotional receptivity. Perhaps this outing was an ill-conceived plan. “We were wondering what our first mission would be.” 

“Assuredly something safe, Captain,” Spock replies automatically. “The chances of disaster on our first mission is small, however much bad luck the _Enterprise_ seems prone to attract in the long run.” 

Even as he speaks, he trods through the remnants of his mental shields, detachedly horrified at the mess. Without time to meditate, he had not realized fully the havoc wreaked by the countless souls of Yorktown screaming in horror, coupled with the terror of the crew under Krall’s influence, and the illogical indecision over his own opportunity to serve his own species. By his estimation, it will require two days, possibly more, to restore his shields to half of their normal effectiveness. The only time he has been quite so unguarded was during the destruction of Vulcan; and even then, he was not so attuned to the variable emotions of humans. Now that he has spent a considerable amount of time in their presence - especially that of these two unfathomable specimen - their minds more easily brush against his, willingly or not. “Perhaps a goodwill mission to another species, or a diplomatic trade?” he suggests.

“Speakin’ of which, we gotta work on your diplomacy, Jim,” Doctor McCoy growls, brandishing his half-empty cup at the captain like a bludgeon. “Make sure you don’t get jumped next time you gotta negotiate a peace treaty.”

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault they gave me an actual _weapon_ to negotiate with!” the captain protests, holding his hands in the air in the universal gesture of peace. “There’s not many ways we could’ve salvaged that one anyway.” 

With a mental sigh, Spock consigns the captain and Doctor McCoy to their childish antics and staggers through his own mindscape. The situation has, apparently, only deteriorated since their arrival at Yorktown two days ago; the passage of time spent in the company of so many humans and pushing his own physical limitations has rather spent his mental abilities. Half-inside of his own mind, half-tracking the conversation, Spock runs a gentle finger over the Vulcan soil that forms the base of his mental haven. Enormous webbed cracks split straight through the sand, and Spock avoids these cracks meticulously, sensing already the deep-rooted pain writhing beneath the surface. That is one healing mission upon which he has meant to embark for quite some time - five years, in fact - but has never encountered an opportune moment. 

“If you’d kept a cool head and explained the situation, maybe.” The doctor’s eyes flash with mock-anger. 

“Bones, that was half of the most powerful weapon in the universe.”

“Wasn’t like they knew that. They just knew it was a weapon and took offense.”

“Either way, Bones, giving someone a weapon is sketchy deal -”

“Not if you explain it’s meant peacefully. C’mon, Jim, what’d you do, go in there and start makin’ excuses?”

“No!” the captain protests in the exact tone of voice that means that make excuses is precisely what he did. “Well, maybe. But it was a lost battle from the start.”

“Like I said. _Cool head_. Y’know, talking, conversing. Explaining. Not flirting.”

“I wasn’t _flirting_ -”

“You sure weren’t doin’ the other three! Maybe you should start takin’ lessons from Spock.” 

At this precise moment, Spock feels very strongly that he has a cool head. Cold, even. In fact, the shivers running through his body are starting to cause him grave concern. He pulls himself from his damaged mindscape and the discordant conglomerate of scratches that have taken over the his normally-cohesive mindscape. Spock wishes ruefully for the previous order inside of his mind, memories tucked away over the soils of Vulcan, inside a mental recreation of the Vulcan Science Academy and his own home. Now, nothing is left but dilapidated remains, and with a weary mental sigh, Spock resigns himself to several days’ worth of rebuilding this recreation of his homeworld, grain-by-grain. 

“You’re suggesting I ask Spock for help? Who’re you and what did you do with my CMO?”

“Oh, shut it, Jim, it’s only the _logical_ explanation.” 

“Gentlemen,” Spock intervenes neutrally, struggling to maintain an even tone of voice through the waves of nausea building in his throat and, quite irritatingly, making proper diction a challenge. Even more alarming, his wound has begun to throb excruciatingly in his chest; and without his shields, there is little he can do but bite back the pain and hope for relief when he enters a meditative trance. "I believe I must retire for the night,” he manages through slightly-pursed lips.

“You just got here,” Captain Kirk complains, turning to look at him. “Surely you can - Spock?”

It is almost laughable, Spock thinks, feeling strangely disconnected, that his captain is able to turn from feeling amusement to worry quite so quickly. As a half-Vulcan, taking on his captain’s emotions as his own is...different. He suspects that, were the captain not nearly so concerned, it might even approximate pleasantness, connected as such to Jim Kirk. 

“Good God,” the doctor swears, setting down his drink with an unusually loud _clank_. “Spock, you look like somethin’ a Horta’s gone and thrown up.” 

Spock quite literally turns green, an unusual physical declaration of his own disgust. “Thank you for that apt metaphor, Doctor. Now, if you will excuse me -”

He tries to stand, and finds that his knees do not wish to cooperate; instead, stubborn bones that they are, they lock on him and send him careening toward the ground. 

Spock has time for a half-aborted mental curse in Ancient Vulcan, a swear word he had learned from Lieutenant Uhura, before his own stubborn body sends him careening toward the ground. Uselessly, he attempts to stop his descent with his arms, but his shoulders, too, refuse to comply. 

His chest slams against something hard and forsakenly pointy on the way down before he topples to the ground. In the background of his auditory senses, he hears both the captain and Doctor McCoy release a string of what the doctor terms “colorful metaphors” before their faces crowd his vision. 

For a moment, there is blissful nothing - not the physical pain of earlier, nor the mental discomfort from his shattered mindscape. He cannot, in that moment, even feel the numbing coldness spreading over his body. 

And then, the spell is broken, and the physical pain is nearly unbearable. 

Somehow, quite illogically, _everything_ hurts - his chest, arms, knees, even fingers, throbbing in time with his Vulcan heartbeat. Also, he cannot breathe. He catalogues this information quite calmly, a fact which would be commendable even to a full Vulcan, before choking on something liquid rising in his throat and obstructing his airway. 

Perhaps he should have retired earlier, Spock thinks, this time with genuine regret. If for nothing else, he would not die at the hands of a stack of old Terran tomes - truly, an ignoble method of downfall. 

He curls in upon himself, quite instinctively, commanding what little he still can of his limbs to scratch at his throat and remove whatever is in the way of his airpipe. His success is limited-to-none.

Above him, the two humans are saying something. For once, Spock wishes that they would take it upon themselves to speak louder, quite the unusual wish - typically, his Vulcan hearing amplifies even whispers to over-audible hearing range. Now, though, he can hear nothing but a strange ringing.

Abandoning his pointed ears for now, Spock turns instead to reading their lips. Jim is saying “Spock,” probably several times in a row, looking concerned. Panicked, even. In a passing moment of delirium (so Spock tells himself), he wishes greatly to wipe such a wounded look of his captain’s face. He attempts to reach up, but finds that his arms do not respond. 

At Jim’s side, Doctor McCoy whisks a tricorder over his rapidly-fading body. The man looks worried as well, Spock is surprised to note. Horrified, less so, but concerned - a tad more so, he thinks, than is fully justified for the average patient. 

Interesting.

It is possible that he could have remained conscious, if not for the Doctor’s fingers patting (gently, of course, wonderfully gently) on his chest, and the sheer terrified confusion from both of them. However, the physical pain that crops up around his fingers, compounded with the emotional, sends Spock plummeting into the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock has a confession to make, even if Jim doesn't understand the words that roll off his half-Vulcan tongue.

In retrospect, he really should’ve noticed something was wrong _before_ Spock turned pale green and tried to quit their little social outing. Probably shoulda been obvious - y’know, shivers and shaking and mental vacancies and diction not quite up to par with their half-Vulcan’s usual crispness - all the textbook symptoms. And he might’ve realized, if the green-blooded hobgoblin weren’t so good at _acting_. 

But he hadn’t noticed, a fact which his dumb brain is more than happy to remind him. Repeatedly. Like an alarm clock of shame on repeat. 

Okay, what the hell with the weird metaphors, Bones. 

With a jolt of adrenaline rushing through his veins, Bones shoves himself out of his chair and around the table. Already, his ever-present tricorder is out of his pocket and settled familiarly in his palm. 

On the other side of the table, Jim is doing the same, and ship him off to a waste scow if he’s ever seen Jim look so concerned before. Kid probably wasn’t even this afraid to die. 

“Spock,” Jim calls urgently, voice loud in the damning stillness of the room. His fingers hover awkwardly over Spock’s fallen form, wanting to touch, to aid, but hesitant to try. “Spock, what’s wrong?” 

The half-Vulcan does nothing more useful than groan faintly, which Bones would find funny if he weren’t too busy dealing with his own sheer deluge of dread. 

Tricorder out and whirring, Bones lets the readings settle in place while probing at Spock’s chest. There’s something, dear God - his skin, there’s a god damned _hole_ in Spock’s chest, puckered surface unnaturally warm and rough. 

At his touch, Spock’s muscles lock up, a strangle whimper escaping his lips. Bones freezes, but Spock is already unconscious. 

“What?” Bones stares at Spock’s face in muted horror. When he pulls his hand back, it’s tinged with green. 

“Bones, what’s wrong with him?” Jim asks, hands clenching into fists.

“No idea,” he grunts, unwilling to speak his theory and swallowing the bad feeling rising in the back of his throat. He doesn’t even spare his tricorder a glance before setting it to the side and carefully peeling back the three thick layers Spock had stacked over his abdomen. The fabric is sticky with green, and even the his blood is cooler than usual. _Chills_ , Bones notes absently, before his brain whites out in detached horror at the sight of Spock’s chest. 

He can’t even manage a swear. 

This time, Jim’s voice is harder than diamond. “Bones, what is this?”

A shaky “I dunno” is all he can manage, staring with a slack jaw at the mess on Spock’s chest. 

He dealt with this wound two days ago. He’d taken a flaming, sparking metal pole to it and sealed it. He’d told Spock to be careful, not to aggravate it, and then of course the Vulcan went and ignored him as he always does, he and his captain, ignoring his advice because what does _he_ know, he’s just the _Chief Medical Officer_ -

Bones shakes his head furiously, willing his thoughts back on track. Though he’d removed the shard from the debris of the crash and cauterized it, it must still be in there. Spock’s wound is once more wide open, must’ve never healed over, because it's bleeding freely. Heavily. 

Too heavily. Bones feels nausea pushing at the back of his throat at the sight, and his hands ball into fists. 

“Bones!” 

Bones distances himself with a grit of his teeth, pulling his tricorder back from the ground and activating the screen with a quick tap. (His fingers are shaking.) 

“Call Chapel,” he tells Jim without so much as looking up. He forcibly shoves debilitating shock to the side, he will deal with that _later_ , and slaps himself lightly in the face. He needs Chapel, she’s always calm in times like these, it’s weird to have to jolt himself out of the reveries, normally she’s with him -

Jim picks up the communicator but doesn’t open a channel, face still hard as he interrogates Bones, staring with steel in his eyes at his First Officer. “How did this happen?” 

Bones flips through the sets of data to pull up the full-body scan and swearing. “He must’ve avoided getting help. Damn Vulcan told me he’d go into a trance and be _fine_ , computer-brained liar,” Bones swears. 

He peers closer to the readout, trying to - oh, _shit_. 

“Jim,” he says urgently, swallowing nausea, “I need Chapel.”

“Bones -”

“Questions later, help _now_!” 

Finally, Bones’s sharp tone works some sense into the kid’s head, because Jim flips open the communicator. He clicks out a quick series of numbers - his hands are shaking too, Bones can see even from his peripheries - then sits back against the couch, white lips pursed, staring vacantly at Spock’s unmoving form. 

There’s a red signal like a homing beacon on Bones’s tricorder scan, right on Spock’s lungs. The shrapnel must’ve exploded somehow, shattered within Spock’s abdomen, and stayed there. Then it migrated toward the fragile tissue of his Vulcan lungs upon the fall. Even with a healing trance, Bones thinks angrily, a puncture was pretty much inevitable; the offending piece must have been millimeters from the membrane. Anything could’ve driven it home. Spock’s just lucky it didn’t happen earlier. Lucky Bones is here.

Bones doesn’t feel lucky. In fact, he feels like he’s going to be sick. 

Faintly cursing Vulcan stubborness and aloofness and logical-ness and pretty much any negative adjective he can attach a -ness to, Bones’s hands whip the tricorder through a more detailed scan of Spock’s chest. Then he grabs his medical bag (thank God he carries one on him, always) to pull out a pile of blankets, pillows, dermal regenerators, bone setters -

“She’s not responding.”

For the thirty thousandth time that day, Bones curses under his breath. “Damn it, Jim, I need her!” 

Jim shrugs helplessly, still not able to tear his eyes from Spock’s unmoving form. The longer they waste time talking, the chalkier the Vulcan’s face gets. Already, there’s a small pool of blood congealing around his waist, breathing fading and pulse growing more erratic. “I don’t care if you’ve gotta run around the whole damn _Starbase_ -”

Without another word, Jim punches the third speed-dial. “Calling Uhura,” he grunts by way of explanation. “Sometimes, she and Chapel - Uhura?” 

A garbled response comes through the communicator, but Jim cuts it off urgently. “Uhura, is Chapel with you?” 

Another indiscernible response, and Bones waits, heart in his chest, until Jim says “oh thank God,” and Bones tunes him out, tearing off a bandage from his supply and applying it firmly to Spock’s wound. 

The tricorder beeps, calling his attention, and Bones wipes his hands on his jeans - civilian clothes, his panicked brain takes time to notice, disgruntled, not a Starfleet standard uniform he can replace for free - before scanning it rapidly. 

The shrapnel’s lodged in Spock’s gut, which explains the green rolling down the side of the man’s cheek. And somehow, in two days’ time, the incredible healing power of the Vulcan race managed to heal his organs into the _wrong configuration_ , meaning that not only are his lungs trying to seal themselves with the shard of metal trapped inside, but the liver is bent out of shape, his delicate Vulcan heart is warped as well.

Spock’s heartbeat must’ve been irregular for days. 

Bones changes out the bandage, thinking quickly. He’ll need the organ-and-membrane reparator and yells at Jim to tell Chapel to bring one, waiting just long enough to make sure that Jim relays the message before ignoring him again. The man’s in too delicate of a condition to move, Bones realizes, heart thudding, which means he’ll have to perform surgery on the god damned floor.

Were Spock a human, he would be long dead. 

He shoves that thought far, far away. Right now, the primary problem is the bleeding, Bones’s medical brain finally takes over. So he pulls out a depressant and injects it with clean, crisp movements. Instantly, the bloodflow lessens. At least Spock’s no longer in danger of bleeding out. (Now he’s just in danger of choking on his own blood or rupturing his own heart or some other vital organ or contracting hypothermia or dying, his brain supplies helpfully.) 

No way they can get him to the Yorktown Medical Center - that would exacerbate the wound, and besides, Chapel graduated top of her class at open-heart. Bones spends the next ten minutes methodically employing everything that could possibly have some positive effect in his medkit. All the while, he has to juggle one panicking Jim Kirk - he doesn’t have time to deal with questions, not really, but Jim wants answers, and the man is nothing if not stubborn. 

At least until Bones snaps at him to _shut up_ if he wants his First stabilized. 

Jim goes ghostly pale and, with compliance that would be surprising if it weren’t Spock bleeding out on the floor in front of him, shuts up. He relegates himself to sitting peacefully at Spock's side, giving Bones some blessed peace and quiet.

Finally, Bones has to concede defeat and stick his last useful hypo back in his bag, nutrient supplement solution depleted. “Well,” Bones says, voice quieter than it has any right to be, “I don’t know what to tell you, Jim.” 

Jim tries a smile. “Good news, hopefully?”

Bones shrugs shakily. The smile shatters. “Don’t have any. Jim, look, the shrapnel’s in his lungs, punctured right through. He’s literally coughin’ up his own blood, not to mention he’s losin’ it from his chest too. ‘Sides, thanks to Vulcan healin’, his organs have fixed themselves up funny. We gotta...Jim, we gotta take out the bigger pieces of his heart, liver and lungs, touch up a couple of things before we can even think about puttin’ ‘em back and gettin’ him back on his feet.” 

Before he can say anything else, a voice issues from the floor. 

“Doctor?” Spock asks, voice a near-whisper. “Captain?” 

Instantly, both of them forget their previous conversation and turn toward Spock. “Spock?” 

Spock is currently frowning down at his chest, trying to make sense of the bandages practically covering every inch of available skin. He’s also attempting to sit up, Bones sees, but can’t get his abdominal muscles to respond quite the way he wants them to. It’s a testament to Vulcan (to Spock’s?) pain tolerance that he can even move his chest without screaming.

Wordlessly, Spock looks to Bones, begging some sort of explanation. His breathing is ragged, eyebrows clenching together in concern. 

“‘s not good, Spock,” Bones says quietly, turning to kneel closer to the man’s face, trying to relieve Spock’s neck from the awkward angle he’s got it crooked at. “That thing that went through your chest blew up. You’ve got a piece of it in your lungs, plus your fall tore open the hole in your skin.”

Next to him, Jim is white as a sheet, contesting Spock’s position as the palest one in the room, despite the sickly gray clouding Spock’s cheeks. Spock coughs abruptly, mouth opening form a response before the air catches in his windpipe. He tries to sit up, arms shaking from the effort, before his abdomen clenches around whatever’s stuck down there and the half-Vulcan hisses painfully between his teeth. 

Obviously deciding that moving is a bad idea, Spock curls back onto the ground, face tight in a mask of pain. “Ah,” he breathes quietly, eyes flicking everywhere except toward his injured side. “Chances of...survival?” 

Jim makes a noise like retching. Bones shakes his head. “Not gonna answer that, Spock. You’re gonna be fine. Just do your weird meditating thing and you’ll fix yourself pronto.” 

A wet, green smile stretches over Spock’s lips, and something approximating a chuckle escapes his he closes his eyes briefly, too long to be a blink. The sight of the half-Vulcan, stretched out on the floor, hands fluttering painfully around his own torn chest and grinning openly, eyes a symphony of pain, tears at Bones’s heart. 

“Assuming that meditation...is impossible.”

“But it’s not, Spock, you've got your healing voodoo." The alternative is unthinkable. "Either way -”

“Do not make me...perform the calculations...myself, Doctor.” 

“Don’t start on that,” Bones barks sharply, unconsciously moving closer to his patient. “No Vulcan mental genius-ing for two days _at least_.” 

“I make...no promises.”

“You’ll be fine, Spock,” Jim speaks up at nearly the same time, eyes fixed worriedly on his friend. 

Slowly, laboriously, Spock turns his head to meet Jim’s gaze. His smile softens from the nigh-hysterical grin of earlier to something more gentle, almost...concerned, as though Spock were worried for _Jim_ instead of the other way around. 

“Captain...” Spock starts, then takes a deep, shuddering breath, face contracting as pain shoots through his system. He arches in around his stomach, a gurgling whimper breaking through, before he manages to hiss three short breaths between his teeth. Then, with a noise like he’d been stabbed, Spock lies back, breathing short and frantic. “You cannot change fate...with words alone.” 

“I don’t believe it no-win situations,” Jim snaps. “There’s gotta be something -”

“Jim.” Spock cuts off his captain, inhaling slowly. “If I do not...if I do not survive, then please...listen -”

“No, Spock.” The words are quick, almost desperate. He leans further over Spock’s chest, putting his face practically inches from Spock’s own and holding Spock’s eyes open with the sheer force of his will. “You’re not going anywhere, Spock, and you’re certainly not - you’re not going to...”

“I am afraid...you have no choice...in the matter...Jim.” Already, Spock’s eyes begin to drift closed. That small smile worms its way across the face, and it’s familiar - where has Bones...?

“I’m not letting you give up, Commander,” Jim snaps. “Open your eyes.” 

At the words, Spock’s eyes, which had started to drift close, flick open again. Even half-dead, Bones thinks with a watery chuckle, Spock will respond to the orders of his beloved Captain. 

Damn the man. Damn the man, damn him for not doing something, saying something.

Spock’s body finally subsides its pained protests, allowing him to flop back on the floor, inhaling weak, ragged whispers of breaths. “Jim,” he says quietly, through fading exhales. 

Jim, too, looks as though he’s been shot. With trembling hands, he reaches down to wrap his palm around the back of Spock’s neck, scrunching his eyes closed for a brief moment in emotional agony. Spock flinches briefly at the contact - _touch telepath_ , Bones remembers - before subsiding, and something else crosses his face. It’s gentle. Tender, even.

Then, with hands clenching ineffectively around his bare skin as if to stifle the bleeding where Bones’s bandages fail, Spock lifts his forehead mere millimeters to rest his forehead against Jim’s own. 

“Do not...grieve,” Spock tells him, and Bones has to lean forward to catch the words, watching with a fist tightening around his own heart at the sight. Spock and Jim are so close, foreheads resting together - Jim’s hand firm and gentle against the back of Spock’s head, Spock’s arm not occupied tensing convulsively around the bandages resting in the crook of Jim’s elbow. Jim leans forward, the smallest amount, setting Spock’s head more comfortably against the floor without breaking contact. 

“I’m not going to have to, Spock,” Jim tells him firmly, eyes opening to look Spock dead in the eyes. “You’re not going anywhere.” 

Spock smiles again, that chilling smile that Bones recognizes, eyes slipping closed. Where does he know that? He has seen that expression before... 

It is the smile of a dying man. 

Bones exhales forcefully, pushing buried memories from the forefront of his mind, fighting against the pain that shudders through his stomach. “You’re not leavin’ us,” he tells Spock forcefully, and is rewarded with the slightest tilt toward his voice. Jim has run out of words.

“I am afraid...I have no choice, Doctor,” Spock whispers. 

“Bull,” Bones replies forcefully. The word is nowhere near as strong as he intends it; it comes out more a whisper, a prayer, than a declaration of war against whatever supernatural powers have landed Spock, have landed Spock and Jim and Bones himself in this position. 

Spock’s breathing begins to even ominously, calm and slow, a far cry from the ragged gasps of earlier. “Spock,” Bones says urgently. No, this is _not good_ -

His words solicit nothing more than a mumbled groan of a response, a sound far too weak and incoherent to be a true answer. 

Behind them, the door hisses open, two female voices issuing from the background. Bones dismisses them for the moment - unimportant - even as Chapel takes up her place at his side, recoiling in instinctive horror before fumbling through the bag on her shoulder. Something in her hand beeps, a familiar noise that Bones doesn’t bother to catalogue. At her side, Uhura swears in three separate dialects of Klingon before sinking to the floor, hands over her mouth. 

Jim’s eyes open, hands tightening unconsciously around the hairs on the back of Spock’s neck. “Spock?” he asks, voice hoarse. 

Spock mutters something unintelligible from behind closed eyelids. 

Unaware of the two new presences in the room, Jim leans closer. There’s not much Jim can to do to get closer - just shuffles his chest so that he’s directly above Spock. “Open your eyes, Commander,” Jim tries again, voice weak.

But this time, Spock does not comply. 

Instead, he reaches blindly forward, detaching his hand from its previous useless position on his ribs, seeking Jim’s cheek. After several heartbreaking moments, Jim’s free hand grabs Spock’s wrist and guides his hand gently, gently, toward his face. 

Having made contact, Spock tries, again, to sit up, pressing his forehead more firmly against Jim’s own. But his captain is having none of that. 

“Lie down, Spock,” Jim orders, planting a gentle hand on Spock’s chest, swallowing hard over the pained whimper Spock doesn’t even realize he’s making. “Just - just relax, okay, you’re going to be okay.” 

“Jim,” Spock says, voice audible. With what looks like tremendous effort, Spock’s eyes flutter open, staring straight into Jim’s own. “There is something...I must...”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jim says nearly frantically. “You’re gonna be okay, it’s gonna be all right, Spock, you can tell me later...”

“Please.” 

Jim’s face twists into a silent grimace of pain. Then, with a motion like Jim is tearing off his own arm, he nods. “Okay.” 

“Jim. You are -” he tries, but is cut off by a series of hacking coughs that tear through his ribs. He shakes his head furiously when Jim looks down, tensing his hand around Jim’s elbow. 

Spock’s head sinks against the ground, falling still. “Spock?” Jim asks quietly, horrified. 

At the very least, Spock’s chest still rises and falls. Bones is about to call him unconscious and usher a distraught Jim out of the room - he’s got a surgery to do, damn it - when Spock decides he’s not done quite yet. 

It’s a near-silent whisper, issued between lips so green they could pass for leaves, trees swaying gently in the forest, a dying breath from between the lips of a struck trunk. 

“ _T’hy’la,_ ” Spock whispers, the word reverential. 

“What?” Jim asks desperately, eyes open and seeking, searching Spock’s face for some sort of explanation. “Spock, what does that mean? _Spock?_ ”

That infernal, accursed smile curls around his lips once more, and Spock whispers his word again - _t’hy’la_ , foreign and gentle, but heavy, pressing down on their shoulders with import, though they - though Jim - does not understand the word. 

With that damned, damned smile still on his face, Spock’s hand slips from Jim’s elbow to rest lifelessly on the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

“Sir,” comes a voice from very far away. Bones processes the voice, but vaguely, like the person speaking has stuck cotton in their mouth. Or maybe they shoved it in his ears. He’s too numb to be sure. 

“ _Sir_ ,” comes the voice again, sharper this time. Bones blinks. That might be important. He looks to one side. Jim is still - still hovering over Spock, saying something, as if Spock could hear. As if he were still breathing. 

A resounding slap stings across his cheek. He looks up, and Christine Chapel is staring down at him, fury warring with panic in her eyes. “Sir, take this or I will relieve you of duty,” she commands, brandishing a strange metal object - a defibrillator - in his direction. 

The sight of the device pulls his medical instincts to the forefront of his brain. Belatedly, he realizes that Spock is no longer breathing, and that Chapel is holding a sleek stethoscope in one hand and a defibrillator in the other, then also registers that she literally hit him with the stethoscope, running a wondering hand along the straight-lined bruise already sprouting on his jaw. 

“Doctor McCoy!” she shouts, raising her hand to strike him again, but he shakes his head. 

“Nurse, apply the defibrillator,” he orders roughly, shoving shuddering tears back into his skull. Now is not the time, now is not the time, he will drink later but not now. For now, he needs to remove Jim. “I’ll...” he waves a vague hand in Jim’s direction. Comprehension flickers in her eyes as she glances toward the captain and allows him a brisk nod. 

Bones wills himself to his feet through determination alone. “C’mon, Jim,” he says gently, grabbing his friend’s shoulders. 

Jim does not move. 

Bless her heart, Chapel sidesteps him easily and takes his place on the other side of Spock’s body - on the other side of _Spock_ , blasted Vulcan isn’t dead yet - and slips the defibrillator smoothly onto Spock’s chest, sliding her hands over top the bandages with clean movements. “Administering in three...two...one,” she reports calmly. 

Bones can see her hands shaking. 

“Jim, on your feet.”

Jim is unresponsive. With a sigh that carries a fraction of its normal irritation, he physically lifts his friend off the ground. As he manhandles his captain, whose hand is still curled around Spock’s neck, the half-Vulcan’s eyes flutter for the barest of moments before stilling again. 

Scarily enough, once their physical contact breaks, Jim just lets himself be dragged away. He dumps Jim ungracefully on one side of the room, then hurries back to Chapel’s side, dragging his emotions kicking and screaming back under a mask of professionalism. 

“Heart restarted,” she reports coolly, administering another shock, then running her own tricorder over Spock to check that her readings are correct. “Doctor, diagnosis?” 

“Shrapnel punctured through his lung,” he spells out automatically. “Stifled bleeding in the side, probable clotting around entry point. Christine - something’s still in there, his organs have healed all out of shape.” 

Already well in full-on Nurse mode, Chapel’s only reaction is a small, startled blink. “Of course,” she whispers quietly, “Vulcan healing.” Then, “We will need to perform surgery, Doctor,” she tells him unnecessarily, watching his face for flickers of comprehension. 

“Well aware, Nurse,” he replies, unable to muster up his usual irritability. 

“Good.” She nods to herself, pulling out regenerators and retractors and hyposprays in piles from her bags, spreading them on the floor, organized by order of usage, already mentally cataloguing and prioritizing the steps for surgery. 

“Nyota,” she calls quietly, and Bones jumps. He hadn’t even registered that the _Enterprise_ ’s Communications Officer was still in the room. 

“Christine,” Uhura replies evenly, blinking out of her trance in a smooth transition from shell-shocked stiffness to snark. 

Chapel is having none of it. “Grab Jim and take him outside, please.” 

While phrased as a request, Bones recognizes it as an order. Medical officer’s prerogative. Uhura doesn’t. “Christine -”

“Not up for debate, Lieutenant.” For the first time, Christine looks up from her work to meet her friend’s perturbed gaze. “Nyota, neither you nor Jim should be here while we perform surgery.” She stills Uhura’s protests. “Not only for your sake, but for ours as well. This is an extraordinarily delicate operation, Nyota. We must concentrate entirely. The smallest slip will end Mr. Spock’s life.”

Christine’s bluntness startles a cold shiver out of the Communications Officer. “Okay,” she consents in a small voice, unfolding herself with small, shaking movements. “Okay. That’s...okay.” 

Even Bones could hear the “logical” that nearly fell from her lips. 

She picks herself off the floor, smooths her skirts. Leads Jim to the door. Pulls one of his arms around her shoulder and ushers him away, half-carrying, half-dragging him. 

“Doctor,” Christine whispers, once both Uhura and Jim are well out of hearing range. “Are you functional?” 

Bones winces at the Spocklike phrasing of her inquiry, but takes it at face value, steeling himself with a deep breath. “‘Bout as ready as I’ll ever be,” he replies grimly - not an affirmative answer, but honest, and clinically so. “Lights to one hundred percent.” 

She nods. Behind her, the door closes on the backs of two of the _Enterprise_ ’s command chain. With calm fingers, Chapel sets a reparator in Bones’s hands, closes his fingers gently around it, then returns to Spock’s side.

The room falls quiet.

 

The hall outside of the captain’s quarters is shockingly, startlingly silent. As a woman so accustomed to words, to language, to communication with and without audible utterances, this silence sets Nyota utterly adrift. 

The crew - most of them, anyway - are enjoying shore leave; Chekov, in deep discussion with the Vulcan delegation about warp physics, ever his mentor’s student; Sulu, enjoying time with his husband and his child; Scotty, probably caressing the base's well-crafted ventilation system or something. There is not a single soul from the _Enterprise_ \- nor a resident of Yorktown - in sight in the narrow halls. 

Nyota takes a deep, shuddering breath and sinks down against the wall, sliding next to her captain. That was - the sight that greeted her, upon entering Jim’s room - that was the last thing she had expected to see. When Jim had called for Christine, for surgery materials, she hadn’t even _considered_ that Spock would be the patient. He’d always seemed so unflappable.

No, actually, that’s not true at all.

Better than nearly anyone on this base, Nyota knows well that Spock is far from invulnerable. It’s just that she can’t imagine him gone. 

Sure, she’s had more than adequate cause to - his tendency to accompany the captain on away missions, that chaos of a First Contact where Spock had decided he was going to die by _volcano_ because _logic_ \- but she never believed, not really, that he would go. 

This is different. Although she hadn’t spoken a word to Doctor McCoy during the admittedly short time she was in Jim’s room, he told her everything she needed to know - all of it bad news. 

Even though they had split, she and Spock, their friendship had endured, and only grown over the course of the Krall disaster. Insufferable Vulcan though he might be, with his - with his smug eyebrows and stupid facial expressions and wicked intelligence and cool head and ever-present logicality and the smiles, the smiles that flicker in his eyes when he looks at her, or McCoy, or Jim -

God, she might never see that warmth again. 

Hands trembling, Nyota digs her nails into the flesh over her palm and shoves her hand against her lips, willing herself not to make a sound. Instead, she squeezes her eyes shut and focuses on her breathing, in and out, in and out, until she can take a breath without it hitching in her throat. 

(It takes a long time.) 

Finally, finally, she rests her head against the wall, feeling the cool, impersonal metal of Yorktown against the back of her skull. It is nothing like the walls of the _Enterprise_. The starship, her ship, is always humming. A soothing, warm vibration that spreads like chocolate through her body, heating her core and calming her. 

But she is not aboard the _Enterprise_ , and the walls of Yorktown are cold and clinical. 

Distantly, after her mind stops reeling, she thinks to call Chekov and Sulu - they would want to know, of course. But she dismisses the idea. Neither will return to their quarters for another hour, and Nyota could not, in good conscience, tear Sulu from his family. If it appears - that is, if the surgery fails, she will call him them. But for now...she will not. 

Surprisingly, it is Jim who breaks the silence. “Lieutenant Uhura, you speak Vulcan, correct?” 

Though phrased as a question, Jim’s intonation suggests he means it as a mere confirmation. Despite Jim’s cocky swagger, Nyota knows, heart clenching painfully once more, Jim cares about his crew; more so, _far_ more so, than any other Captain in the ‘Fleet. He knows her languages, her history, her soft spots and her weaknesses, and cares for them like no other high-up ‘Fleet officer. 

“Yes,” she confirms quietly. 

He hums in acceptance. Red flags wave frantically in her mind. Of all people to be calm about Spock hovering on death’s door, Jim is the very, very last. 

“Captain?” she inquires gently. 

For some reason, the title brings a wry grin to his face. “Jim,” he corrects, and she instantly realizes her mistake.

Once more, her heart plummets, mind flashing painfully to the surgery happening behind their backs, the man they might lose. “I’m sorry.” 

“No need.” For the first time since Nyota dragged him out into the hall, away from Spock and Bones and Christine, Jim quits staring vacantly into space. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if blinking away the dryness from too long spent staring, and rests his elbows on his knees, which are pulled tight against his chest. His chin, however, stays lifted, studying the gray-striped wall in front of them. “Uhura -”

“Nyota.” 

He laughs, a small, worn chuckle. “Nyota,” he says, bowing his head in acquiescence, before she has time to wonder if her interruption was tactless. “In Vulcan, what does the word _tie-la_ mean?” 

Nyota freezes. Her heart pounds heavily in her ears. Despite the butchered Terran pronunciation, the Vulcan word is clear. “ _T’hy’la_?” she confirms steadily, immensely proud of her voice for not shaking.

Jim nods, one small motion, and glances at her for the first time in the past twenty minutes. 

He looks so small. Lost, in a way that she has never seen on him before. Though he tries to disguise his fear (the gut-wrenching anxiety, the sheer terror, Nyota does not require telepathy to know what he is feeling), he succeeds only partially. 

He is alone, and Spock has left him. Left Jim with _that_. With that one word, that one _feeling_ , the one thing Jim will not understand. 

Couldn’t be bothered to say it beforehand, could he? Not even to explain it in Standard. Now she understands why Vulcans are considered heartless.

She is angry. Furious, actually; her anger spreading hot and pulsing through her body, directed toward the stupid unconscious sentimental _idiot_ who will, in all likelihood, be dead by morning. 

“He did not,” she snaps, propelling herself to her feet, pushing angrily off the walls. She takes two steps away, then two steps back, whirling on her captain. “He did not!” 

“Nyota -”

Jim is starting to look scared, now. Nyota mostly feels like crying, because _damn_ Spock, how dare he? 

“No,” she hisses from between clenched teeth. “No, I will not explain that - _damn him_ -”

“Nyota, explain this to me.”

His tone is different. Less lost, more concerned. Even a bit angry. It occurs to her that in all likelihood his first bit of emotional outlash, of release, is going to happen right now. 

“I can’t do that.”

Jim’s face turns icy at her refusal. He stands in one slow, lithe motion, and clasps his hands coolly behind his back. She easily recognizes his command stance. 

“Lieutenant,” he says coolly, “you will explain, now.”

Nyota takes a deep breath. It’s hard to think past the curses in about twelve different languages with which she is railing against Spock and all of his illogical emotions. 

He must have known he was dying. Must have recognized the panic on Doctor McCoy’s face and extrapolated, quite logically, the inevitable - the _seemingly_ inevitable conclusion. He tooks his final, dying moments, to confess to his captain. 

Nyota will not resign herself to Spock’s death, and therefore will not feel grief; she chooses to fill herself with rage, instead, that Spock would do something so terrible, so cruel, so _human_ , to his captain. 

Jim cannot know. He cannot know until the ordeal is over. The knowledge would break him, it would tear him to shreds and stomp on the pieces. Jim needs closure. She will not condemn him to earning something so precious, so fragile, only to have it snatched away before he can come to terms with it. That Jim knows of Spock’s fate (his _t’hy’la_ , his _t’hy’la_ , her brain marvels wonderingly, somewhere between awe and fury) is absolutely essential before knowing the meaning. 

Before understanding, truly, the loyalty and _love_ of a Vulcan. 

Nyota draws herself taller and says, “No.” 

Jim’s face contorts into an expression of rage, vehemence almost equal to her own. “Don’t make me make that an order, Lieutenant.” 

“Captain,” she responds, equally icy, ignoring her heartbeat slamming in her chest. “I refuse.” 

“Then I will relieve you of your command.”

“Go ahead.” 

Jim’s mouth shifts into something like a sneer. “You are relieved of duty.”

Nyota lifts her chin a further inch. She is nervous, but she will not let it show. Though the Captain is angry, he would never raise a hand against her. In that she trusts. From this faith she draws the strength to respond, “No, _Captain_. I should relieve you, for you are emotionally compromised.” 

Something flicks across his face, just for a split second, before he turns and drives his fist into the wall. Belatedly, Nyota wonders if this blatant reference to him relieving Spock is too soon, but it got a reaction, at least. Which, Nyota thinks, is a good thing.

Probably. 

The Captain of the _Enterprise_ is bent over his own fist. His head is bowed, hands trembling finally, shoulders hunched above his neck. For the first time in this half hour, his breathing is unsteady - but he does not cry. 

The silence of the hallway presses on them. Were she Spock, were she Doctor McCoy, she would know what to say; but she is not neither, so she lets him come to terms with himself before she moves. 

Several minutes trickle by, marked only by a ragged breathing that steadily eases itself into a more familiar cadence. When Jim removes his hand from the wall, Nyota steps toward him and rests a hand on his shoulder.

He flinches from the touch for about half a second before leaning toward her. 

That’s all the invitation she needs to wrap her arms around his chest, pulling his chin against her shoulders. He stiffens at the contact, but does not pull away, so Nyota rubs gentle circles into his back. Finally, finally, he reaches out to encircle her waist, burying his face in her t-shirt. And in that manner, they rest. 

“Lieutenant -”

“Nyota.” 

That elicits a small, rueful smile, she is pleased to see. “Nyota,” he begins again, and there is something approaching desperation in his eyes. “Why won’t you tell me what - what that means?”

“I cannot,” she says resolutely, allowing the sternness of her face to soften, just a fraction, to match the vulnerability slowly seeping through his own expression. “I just - I can’t. Explaining would mean...” she takes a deep, steadying breath, clenching her fist into the fabric of his uniform. “He should explain. Not me. That’s not...I can’t.” 

Heartbroken understanding spreads across Jim’s face, and he bows his head. “Does it mean - just give me something.” Jim is dangerously close to begging, angered bravado disappearing. “Does he...does he hate me, Nyota?” 

Nyota wants to laugh. And cry. Maybe both at the same time.

She allows herself to do neither. “No,” she replies, the word shaky, swallowing an incredulous laugh, because this is so _sad_. “God, no. Captain - Jim. Nothing...nothing of the sort.” 

If Spock doesn’t awaken to tell his captain this himself, she will find him in the afterlife and _haunt him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NYOTA'S FUCKING PISSED


	4. Chapter 4

“Lights to thirty percent,” Bones orders, voice trembling. He sits heavily on the floor, leaning his back against the couch. The effort required to stand and shift into a more comfortable position on _top_ of the couch is too much. Overwhelming. Besides, if he leans back he's gonna get blood all over the couch, and atht would be a crime. The couch is this really nice white one that Starfleet issues for visiting captains. Got lace on the pillows and everything. 

“Nurse, could you -” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the bar and Jim’s preposterously illegal stash of brandy. How he managed to smuggle that on the base, Bones has no idea.

“Absolutely not,” Nurse Chapel replies briskly, snapping the medbag together and standing. Somehow, where Bones is exhausted down to his very bones - heh - she is still moving.

He’s not fooled, of course. She’s putting on a good show for him, acting collected, but he can see right through her. Even with only a couple of months working together, pulling off miracles in deep space, he knows her well enough to tell. Besides, however she tries to deny it, he can totally tell she likes Spock. Like. _Like_ likes Spock. 

There’s a small Jim in the back of his head, laughing at him for that elementary-school turn of phrase. He groggily tells it to shut up. 

“Dismissed,” he sighs, waving his hand and letting his head rest against the cushions. It’s an uncomfortable position - he’s gonna have a crick in his neck in a couple of hours, doubtless - but he can’t find it in himself to move. 

The _thunk_ of a glass hitting the ground next to his hand surprises him. He looks up to see Chapel's eyes soft and worried, the medbag slung easily over her shoulder. (Doesn’t that thing weigh, like, fifty pounds?) “I’ll expect a check-in in half an hour,” she tells him sternly, kneeling next to him and staring him directly in the eyes. He can’t look away. 

“Of course,” he mutters, too tired for sass.

She nods and straightens, brushing dried chips of green blood off of her jeans. Bones tries not to follow them with his eyes as they rest on the floor, and even more pointedly doesn’t look at the green stains in the carpet. Someone’s gonna have a hell of a time cleaning that out of the carpet once the crew sets out. 

The click of her shoes against the floor are the only sound she makes as she leaves. Bones picks up the cup and sniffs it curiously. It’s water. He takes a small sip, then shakes his head and downs the whole glass. 

The room is silent, save for the near-soundless whirr of the atmospheric controls from somewhere in the ceiling. 

“You’re stupid, for a Vulcan,” Bones feels the need to inform Spock. 

The half-Vulcan is sleeping - well, not peacefully, but quietly - on the captain’s carpet. His breathing, though shallow, is far steadier than before, and that emotionless heart of his is at least beating. He hardly moves save for the tiny rising and falling of his chest.

The insidious inorganic material that had nearly leeched away his life lies, small and insignificant, in a forensic baggy several feet away from and above McCoy on the captain’s table. Spock’s organs have been torn open and quickly mended, his lungs patched up, and - because there are no other half-human, half-Vulcan blood donors, regardless of blood type, ever - he has been loaded enough nutrient-and-copper supplements to down a horse. 

Bones pushes himself off the ground, struck with the sudden urge to move, to pace, to do _something_ other than sit around and stare at his broken commanding officer. He moves almost unconsciously over to the sink and refills his cup, swirling the liquid idly as it pours out of the tap and into his glass. It’s hard to tell when the drink is full, since the lights are less than half their usual brightness, so it overflows a bit before Bones snaps back into awareness and shuts off the handle. 

Glass in hand, he sinks back against the couch. The darkness presses against his eyes. 

He probably shouldn’t stay here, Bones knows, with his eyes straining to discern movement as they are. He should get some form of distraction, to take his mind off of Spock just...lying there. Watch a Terran sports game, or watch the Andorians do their thing. Anything other than moping around and being useless. 

Eh. He's a doctor, he doesn't have to take his own advice. Medical liberties.

It’s unnatural, for the Vulcan to be this still. He's never immobile, not like this.

Well, kind of. Spock can be uncannily motionless when he wants to be, so that’s not too big a change. It’s the closing-off of his face that unnerves Bones the most. 

Upon boarding the _Enterprise_ , right after their first mission, Bones - like the rest of the crew - was quite convinced Spock had no emotions and was proud of it, thank you very much. For all intents and purposes, Spock pretty much proved them right, jettisoning Jim onto that frozen lump of rock the Federation was stupid enough to term a class-M planet. 

Then Jim came back, and Spock socked him in the face. 

As the years passed, Bones began to realize that, far from an emotionless robot, Spock displayed emotions nearly all the time. Just...smaller. His eyebrows were probably the best indicators. They could raise in disbelief, astonishment, incredulity; soften in relief, sympathy, and (dare he say it) joy; contract in anger, discontent, that I-am-done-with-dealing-with-you-illogical-humans look that Bones knows so well. It took him even longer to realize that Spock doesn’t smile with his mouth, as humans do. 

He smiles with his eyes. 

“You’d better wake up, or I’m gonna hypo you with such a concoction of Vulcan naptime you ain’t gonna wake up for...for three months.” Bones’s voice is slurring with exhaustion, his accent growing more and more pronounced. But he doesn’t care. He has no audience, save for the dying man across the room, his own ears, and the unmoving water glass in his hands. “And Jim’s gonna...well, I dunno what Jim’s gonna do. Punch you, probably. Then hug you ‘til your ribs crack again. Then y’all are gonna wind up in Sickbay for a week, complainin’ about meal cards ‘n playin’ chess and sneakin’ out of your beds every other night. Do y’all even realize what kinda Cain y’all raise when you’re in Sickbay? You should come with a label, both of you. _Warning: do not befriend. Will cause daily migraines_.” Bones takes a sip of his drink. “That’s what you should say to everyone you meet. Don’t make friends with me. ‘s not worth it.” 

He didn’t get a warning like that before befriending either of them, James T. Kirk at the Academy and Spock...well, he’s not quite sure when he and Spock became friends. Maybe when they were stumbling along Krall’s planet two days ago, Spock practically hysterical from pain. Maybe it was years ago. It doesn’t matter now. 

Just because Bones wants to torture himself, he flicks on his tricorder again. It whirrs to life with an ominous buzzing noise. He flicks it over Spock’s body with one hand, nursing his cup in the other, then gives it a moment to think before checking the K3 indicator. 

Off the charts. Way out of human tolerance range. Bones viciously bites down on the urge to smash the tricorder against the wall. For once, just once, he wishes the tricorder would be wrong about something. Stupid machine. Maybe if he threw it hard enough, he could punch a hole through that Observation Deck facsimile they’ve got going on toward the other side of Jim’s room. 

When he takes another sip, his hands are shaking violently enough to spill some on his collar. “You’re a real pain,” he grumbles at Spock, trying to slick the water off of his civilian shirt without tearing a hole in it or something equally inconvenient. Anger, hot and coiling, burns in his stomach - at Spock, at himself, at Krall, at the metallic samples resting innocently at the table, at the K3 indicator, telling him what he doesn’t want to know. Just like Spock does. Honest even when you don’t want to hear it. Candor when you don’t even know you need it. “Don’t know why I put up with you all. You ‘n Jim. Comin’ back aboard with arrows stickin’ out of your heads.”

He can almost hear Spock’s voice. _Doctor, we have never once beamed aboard ship with such primitive devices lodged in our craniums._

“I wouldn’t discoun’ the possibility,” he slurs at that imaginary Spock that feels so much like the real one. Pointy-eared and annoying and everything. “Y’all are stupid enough for it to happen, anyway.” 

_As neither the captain nor I are mentally handicapped at the moment, any stupidity would be incurred later. Doubtless under your care. ___

__“You don’t get ta snark at me, Spock. I just saved your hide.”_ _

__Neither Spock has anything to say to that. At least, he thinks wryly, he can win an argument against Spock in his own head. It’s about the only time, anyway._ _

__Bones’s fingers fiddle absently with his cup. “You don’t get to give up on me,” Bones’s mouth says before his brain gives it permission. This is mutiny. “You’re gonna wake up tomorrow all insufferable and frownin’ even though your eyes are smilin’. All ‘Doctor, your concern is illogical’.” He shakes a finger at the truant Vulcan. “That’s what’s gonna happen, or else I’m gonna - I’m gonna boot you off the ship and send you to Earth so you can live out the rest of your life in misery. Surrounded by a buncha illogical humans. Bet you’d hate that. All those emotions you gotta deal with._ _

__“And don’t give me that bull ‘bout how Vulcans don’t have emotions, Spock. Y’know, I took a class on xenopsychology, I can see through your crap. You gotta get much better to fool me. Y’all - all of you Vulcans have emotions, you just squish ‘em. Like bugs. Don’t squish ‘em, Spock, we humans ain’t gonna judge you for cryin’ every once in awhile.”_ _

__Bones certainly hopes not. That’s what he’s doing, right now, with no one but Spock to judge him._ _

__“See, ain’t a thing to be ashamed of,” he says in a watery voice. He sniffles. Like a little kid, with pathetic-sounding whimpers and everything. God, what has this stupid Vulcan reduced him to. “Sometimes you just gotta let it out. Good for the soul.”_ _

__The room is mostly quiet for several moments. Then, Bones scrubs at his face with a shaking hand. He forgets his cup is in his hand, and only barely saves himself from a nice solid drenching, all over his shirt. It’d probably evaporate soon, though. He’d set the room at a temperature comfortable for Vulcans, so he’s all sweatin’ and boilin’. Yeah. That’s why his face is wet._ _

__“Look what you’ve done to me,” he comments ruefully, shaking his head at himself. “You’re not supposed to cry over patients, y’know. Bad practice. Makes ‘em feel worse. You ‘n Jim always say I’ve got bad bedside manner, but that’s somethin’ I don’t do. Y’know, cry at ‘em. You gotta save it until they’re asleep.”_ _

__Because that’s what Spock’s doing. Sleeping. Just taking a nap. He’ll wake up, he tells himself, go back to being his usual annoying self in the morning._ _

__Spock has a thirty-six percent chance of surviving the next six hours._ _

__Bones downs the second cup of water, again in one unwisely large mouthful. He has to cough, strangely loud in the unsettling silence of the room, to expel excess water from his windpipe._ _

__“Whatever you told Jim, you’d better explain yourself. Those were heavy words, Spock, don’t think we didn’t notice. ‘N you don’t get to go ‘round dyin’ before you do some explainin’. You’ve got a lot of that to do.” He wipes his mouth, breathes. Inhale, exhale._ _

__“Why didn’t you come tell us?”_ _

__For the first time, Bones’s voice is small, even in the scrutinizing atmosphere of the small, small quarters that used to feel so big. It’s just him and Spock, now._ _

__“Right, you were off tryin’ to be Captain and CMO and First all at the same time.” Bones snorts. “You know, normally I’d say doin’ all that would be inhuman. But c’mon, Spock, even you coulda seen it was too much. When’s the last time you even slept?”_ _

__The question is rhetorical. The answer is five-and-a-half days ago, before the destruction of the _Enterprise_ and the crew’s capture by Krall._ _

__What pisses Bones off is that this was _so easy_ to avoid. Just a little bit of rest, some meditation or sleeping trances or whatever the hell Vulcans use to heal themselves, and Spock wouldn’t be like this. And for what? Save him and Jim a couple of hours of headaches? Talk about illogical. Vulcans don’t have emotions, his sainted aunt. He’s met full-blooded humans less emotional, less _caring_ , than Spock. _ _

__It isn’t until the last angry syllables fade against the walls of the room that Bones realizes he was speaking aloud._ _

__That realization saps his energy instantly. He sets his cup aside with a defeated _clank_. He can’t be mad, not really. Instead of being furious, he’s just...tired. _ _

__He should say something. Something sweeping and dramatic, something that will impress upon Spock his importance until he has to wake up. Until he has no other choice. Something that’ll snap the Vulcan out of this stupid self-sacrificing mindset he somehow picked up along the first three years of their voyage._ _

__But nothing comes to mind._ _

__Bones leans his against the couch, curls his knees against his chest, and waits._ _


	5. Chapter 5

Christine estimates that an hour has passed since she and Doctor McCoy finished surgery. Afterward, she’d fully intended to retire to her quarters and sleep for several hours, perhaps aided slightly by Nyota’s covert stash of ready-made daiquiris - fresh strawberries and _tono’pak_ (rare these days, but Nyota’s got a small plot going down in Botanical that no one knows about), interspersed with hard Orion ale - but she stopped a bit short.

Christine’s bid for freedom lasts three steps out the door before it halts entirely, burning itself to ribbons, like a meteor tearing itself to flaming shreds in upper atmosphere. Half of the _Enterprise_ ’s functional command chain looks to be wallowing in misery against the wall of their Captain's quarters. So, as a nurse, it is only logical (she winces to herself) that she try to assist.

Her captain and Nyota look terrible. Both of them are curled protectively in on themselves, the captain with his knees against his chest (and doesn’t that set off about a hundred different alarm sirens in her brain, all hollering about different symptoms of psychological breakdown, wailing signs of trauma and anguish) and Nyota slumped against the wall, arms crossed defiantly over her chest. 

The sound of her body settling itself draws Nyota's attention, her worried gaze. Jim doesn’t react. 

“Thirty-six percent chance he survives the next twelve hours,” she tells them quietly.

_That_ gets Jim's attention. She hopes it's due to the sound of her voice rather than the dishearteningly low number.

Jim’s eyes flicker over her form without a hint of leering or interest. She sees his eyes take in the dried blood crusted, still slightly sticky, on her jeans. Then her torso, the wrinkles in her t-shirt and near-permanent creases that fold around the heart-scanner she'd held, pressed to Spock's chest, on-and-off for over an hour. Two years ago, the attention might have made her uncomfortable, given Jim’s past. 

Now he’s earned a different sort of regard.

Captain James Tiberius Kirk is far from the foolish boy in the Academy, prioritizing his drinks and his women over his books. Way back when, he'd blow off lectures every other day. He'd stumble into his classes, eyeballs pounding with a hangover, begging her for some sort of remedy. Didn’t matter whether she said yes or no, though - he’d still pass the exams with flying colors. 

At first she thought he'd slept with the instructors or something, to get the answer keys. Nope - she watched him. Whatever he was doing, he wasn't cheating.

Made her a bit angry, to be honest, how he flew past her hours of studying with not a wink of book-reading. Or sleep. 

Their paths split. Good riddance, she’d thought, glad to be rid of that persistent nuisance. She’d thought that was the last she’d seen of him (no tears there), until, several years later, she was assigned to the _Enterprise_. She could’ve requested a transfer - considered it, too - and soundly decided that her career was far more important than one arrogant official she’d hopefully never interact with overmuch. She rolled her eyes, consigning herself to an absolute prick of a captain.

She ended up with a legend. 

It’d taken her a little while to get used to this new Jim Kirk. Still, even after several months aboard, she’s not entirely sure what changed him. But were she a betting sort of woman, she’d put every credit she’s got on their First and CMO. Some of it was probably intrinsic, too - she hadn’t missed the _Tolstoy_ tucked underneath the cabinets in his quarters when Bones went on one of his late-night, check-on-our-fool-of-a-captain rampages. 

He’d been respectful, and she was more relieved than she’d had words to say. In fact, she recalls with a spark of amusement, it’d gotten so bad she had to confront him about it. That was a good time. Confronting him in the hallway about how _no_ , Captain, this detached sort of demeanor _isn’t_ going to work, as the highest-ranked Medical official save Doctor McCoy himself they will have to have contact at _some_ point. 

Afterward, they’d shared a couple of dinners. Nothing candlelit, no romantic music. His presence was, oddly enough, comfortable. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of the genius mind that had propelled such a truant to the top of his classes at the Academy. Rather than flirt - which she would admit to expecting - they discussed moral implications of mandating vaccines for Rigellan viruses and the possibility of catching the onset of and treating Bendii syndrome early.

Interesting.

Captain James T. Kirk runs his ship with warmth. Fiery determination, glowing affection. He is not the sort of commander who is too proud to admit to his own mistakes, nor does he look down on crew members as advised by Starfleet rulebooks. Even in the admittedly short time during which Christine has gotten to know him, has earned her admiration.

But this Jim is not the Captain she respects. This Jim is silent. There is nothing of the energy, the vivaciousness that is so characteristic of her Captain and her friend. 

“At least he’s alive,” Nyota manages quietly. Then, in a slow, hesitant tone, “Will we be able to tell when he - if he...”

“We have a biomonitor hooked up. If something goes wrong, we’ll know.” 

“I should call the crew,” Nyota proposes, looking to her captain for approval. “Captain?”

Jim doesn’t appear to hear her. “Jim?” 

Nothing. Christine keeps herself from sighing. She hadn’t missed the impact against the wall earlier - doubtless her captain’s fist against the wall - but he’s not done, not by far. Not grieving for Spock. 

Anger is a natural response to trauma, and one she’s seen countless times before. That doesn’t make it any less painful to witness. If he’s going to be functional at all, he needs to release, somehow. Which, in the Captain’s case, means shouting. An unfortunate defense mechanism, but ultimately the one that Jim possesses. 

And, as though Nyota had read her mind, she’s on her feet, already glaring daggers. Christine has to admire her usually even-tempered friend’s strength. Despite the obvious reeling of Nyota's own mental state, she is willing to act for the sake of her captain.

Loyal to a fault.

“Captain, I asked you a question,” she repeats calmly, sinking to a crouch to stare him steadily in the eyes. When he does not deign to meet her gaze, she wraps her fingers around his chin and forces his face upward. 

That elicits a reaction. Jim’s hand reaches out to latch around hers, gaze sparking and icy. He stands quickly to his feet, looming tall over her. 

“I believe you relieved me of command, _Lieutenant_.” 

Nyota jerks her hand sharply out of his own, refusing to be cowed by her captain. She rises to match his stance. “If you think so, you are even less capable of command then I believed.” 

“So you've already told me. That I was emotionally compromised. Well then, congratulations. The rest of us are out of commission, you’re in charge.” His smile is vicious. “Happy now?” 

“Captain, this was not my intention, as you well know.” 

“Why not?” his tone has escalated to shouting, a buffeting of sound that Nyota takes in calm stride. “You afraid you can’t lead? Or you don’t even want to try?”

His fists are clenching behind his back. One strike, Christine promises herself through a pounding heart, one blow between the two of them and she will call off this fight through whatever means necessary. Oh God, she hates raised voices, bad memories, those are bad memories...

“I am expressing concern. This isn’t healthy, captain. Sitting here in silence, brewing in your own thoughts -”

“ _Concern?_ Are you serious? So what if it isn’t healthy, _Lieutenant,_ what are you gonna do about it? Try to relieve me again, take your shot at Captaincy?” he asks, a snort of anger marring the disbelief in his words. “If anyone’s going to be emotionally compromised, it should be you. You were the ones dating, shouldn’t you be feeling something? Or was he rubbing off on you?” 

Christine feels a surge of righteous anger in her breast. On one hand, that overstepped his boundaries. On the other, Jim will regret that, whether Nyota makes him or not.

"Of course I'm feeling something. Jim, just talk to us, okay -"

"Why would I talk to you? You clearly aren't feeling anything at all!" 

For the first time, Nyota’s calm facade cracks. She gapes openly. “You seriously think I’m happy about this? Are you serious, _Captain?_ ”

“Well, what am I supposed to think? Here you are, already making the damned funeral arrangements!” 

“These aren’t _funeral arrangements_ , I’m preparing for a possibility, I’m thinking about the crew. About Spock’s -”

“You wouldn’t be so worried if that thirty-six was a seventy-two, would you?” There’s a crazed light in the Captain’s eyes, now. “To you, he’s already _dead!_ ” 

“Jim, I’m the one who refused to explain what - the word, because Spock should be the one to do it -”

“And I’m sure you’ve already got a definition locked and loaded. Ever the Communications Officer, always prepared for the worst contingency, radioing for backup -”

“You are _out of line,”_ Uhura spits. “I’ve no more given up on him than you have -”

“Yet you’re the one clamoring to call in for his wake -”

The doors to the room slam open. From the darkness snaps a very tired, very irritable Southern drawl. “Children!” Doctor McCoy shouts hoarsely, looking remarkably unsurprised to see Nyota and Jim at each other’s throats. Mostly, he just looks angry. Furious. Even though she’s not the target of his rage, Christine scoots a bit backward, pushing her spine against the solid wall of the Yorktown base. 

Both Jim and Nyota jump, voices quieting instantly at the irate tone. “Might I remind you, we have a man on death’s door inside this room. If you’re going to tear at each other’s throats, do it somewhere a god damned _telepath_ can’t pick up on _every bad thought_ you two are thinking about each other!” Bones yells, throwing his hands in the air.

Nyota goes bone-white, a horrified look flitting across her face. In the span of a breath, she slaps both hands over her mouth, as if wishing she could pull the heated argument of earlier from the memory of time through shame alone.

But Bones isn’t done, still spitting harsh Georgian truth through a locked jaw. “Honestly, if y’all weren’t officers of Starfleet, I’d think you children. Uhura, I appreciate the effort, but if you were gonna try to provoke an emotional response do it somewhere _else_. And Jim, look, you can’t just take this out on Nyota. Open your damned _eyes_ , man, can’t you see she’s hurtin’ just like you?” 

For the first time, something cracks in Jim’s expression. As Nyota turns to him, ashamed, he looks down at his feet, stark against the polished white floors of the Yorktown base. 

“C’mon, y’all,” Bones continues, voice much quieter and subdued. He crosses the hall with dogged steps and plants his back against the door, slumping against the surface as though it could serve as a replacement spine. “This isn’t what he woulda wanted.” 

Nyota’s hands move from her mouth to her eyes, scrunching her eyebrows close as Bones’s words hit close to home. Jim slides back against the wall and buries his face in his arms. “Sorry,” he mutters quietly, and Christine’s not sure who the words are meant for - Nyota or Bones, or Spock, maybe. 

A deep breath. Then, “Bones, can we...” he trails off, gesturing indiscriminately behind him, toward the wall behind which Spock lays immobile.

Bones’s expression falls for the briefest of seconds before tightening again. He shakes his head, face closed. “Spock’s supposed to be healin’ a lot faster than he is. My guess’d be he’s got no mental protection at all right now, and pickin’ up on the turbulence from a buncha humans mournin’ him isn’t gonna help one bit.”

“Could he actually hear us?” 

Bones shrugs and carefully, studiously does not meet their eyes. “Dunno.”

That’s as good as a yes. Jim glances at Nyota, then a wry smile touches at his lips. His eyes are haunted. “You were right. The crew deserve to know. They - it’s what he would’ve wanted.” 

Nyota’s laugh is watery and relieved. “Jim, it wasn’t about that, it was -”

“I understand, Lieutenant. Thank you. I just...”

Nyota doesn’t let him finish. She places a hand on his shoulder for the second time in as many hours and stills his words. “I understand, Captain.” And understand she does - Nyota specializes in things left unsaid. “You need not explain. I’m going to comm them, okay?” 

That wry smile grows larger. The fact that she still asks his permission, despite his clearly emotionally compromised state, is not missed by anyone. “Go for it.” 

With quiet fingers and quieter words, Nyota comms the three of them, one by one - Chekov first, then Sulu, then Scotty. 

Christine rests her head against the wall and closes her eyes. She expects Nyota to summon them, give them their location, but does not do so. One by one, she informs them of Spock’s condition, and one by one, asks them to stay away. 

On the surface, her request is to allow them time to grieve alone. In her words there is the unspoken implication that the captain needs time alone as well. But the crew of the _Enterprise_ is not made of fools - there is no way the Captain would be anywhere but as close as he could be to Spock; and, therefore, he is not alone. Even without the sound of Jim and Bones talking quietly in the background, the loyal crew knows their captain well enough to see straight through Nyota's lies. 

To see that she is offering them a way out. A chance to sleep through this whole disaster. To take the break they deserve, to rest as Spock would, quite logically, wish for them. 

All three agree reluctantly to stay away.

Chekov is the first to arrive. 

His eyes are reddened, and against such a young face, too. He joins their group without a word, just a quiet nod. Into the continuing silence, he curls up against the doorframe on the other side - a respectful distance from the captain - and stares blankly at the wall. Christine notes with a dry, flat grin that none of the _Enterprise_ ’s command chain has the grace to even look surprised at such a blatant disregard for orders. 

Their obvious lack of shock is only amplified when Sulu trudges in an hour later. He is dressed in a plain white t-shirt and what looks suspiciously like woollen pajama pants. He, too, does not feel the need for speech; instead, he absorbs the scene with remarkable tact and slips down next to Chekov, offering the younger man his shoulder. After several seconds of obvious internal battle, Chekov accepts his offer and rests his tired neck against Sulu’s side. 

When Scotty walks in half an hour later, Christine realizes that not even Sulu reacted to seeing Chekov there, as if he had known as well as Jim and Nyota that Chekov would appear; Scotty is much the same. He takes in their little group without a hint of shock. He stands in the hallway, a tired grin tugging the corner of his lips as the sight, studying his family.

Before joining Sulu and Chekov, Scotty pops a bottle out of his waistband and quietly proffers it. No one takes him up on it, so he caps it and stows it away. At this point, she shouldn’t be surprised by Scotty’s abstinence from intoxication. And...technically, it’s against base regulations to carry alcohol _quite_ that potent, however small the flask, but Christine certainly isn’t going to call him on it. 

Together, they let the nighttime tick away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Vibrantankles for catching an error in the last chapter. :)


	6. Chapter 6

Six days, four hours and forty-three minutes before the launch of the _Enterprise 1701-A_ , her captain jolts awake to a loud, insistent blaring right next to his ear. 

His first thought is to wonder where he is and why he’s slumped so uncomfortably against a hard wall. Then, a close second, why on Earth Bones is actually letting him sleep on his shoulder. This arrangement is nothing short of a marvel. Not even when Jim was crashing hard with a hangover in the Academy did Bones give him the slightest bit of sympathy. It was always “you brought this upon yourself, Jim,” and a flick in the nose - or, more recently (and much more unpleasantly) a hypo to the jugular. 

It’s not until Jim rolls his neck a couple of times, blinks, and registers Uhura on his other side that the memories come flooding back. 

Just like that, he wants to be asleep again. 

“Christine!” Bones’s voice calls sharply, and suddenly Jim has no shoulder-rest on which to lie his head. The abrupt absence of his support sends him reeling, and only his quick reflexes saving him from sprawling out onto the floor. “Nurse Chapel, on your feet!” 

“Awake, Doctor,” comes the curt reply from Uhura’s other side.

Jim rubs his head blearily. Already, Bones is on his feet and moving; Jim catches nothing but the tail end of his jeans as the two whip into Jim’s room. 

Next to him, Uhura is unsteadily blinking awake. Chekov looks like he hadn’t slept at all, back ramrod straight and not even resting against the wall. Sulu and Scotty are still sleeping, somehow. In the small part of his brain not reeling (that alarm cannot mean anything good), Jim figures Sulu hasn’t wasted much of his free time on sleep, seeing how infrequently he can find opportunities to visit his family; and as for Scotty, Jim blames the rings of eyebags, probably from the hours the man has already spent aboard the _Enterprise 1701-A_ working alongside the Yorktown’s maintenance staff, inspecting the warp core until it meets both ‘Fleet requirements and his own, more exacting Scotty-standards. 

“What happened?” Chekov demands quietly.

“Something has gone wrong.” Nyota’s hands clench into fists. “McCoy and Christine, they hooked Spock up to some sort of biomonitor, and it just went off - he’s -”

“He’ll be fine,” Jim grits out between his teeth.

A blatant lie, of course. But Chekov’s eyes are so wide and fragile. Sometimes Jim forgets just how young Chekov is. Coupled with the hero-worship thing the young Russian has going for his mentor - Chekov basically commits everything Spock says to memory, treating the CSO’s words like some sort of precious textbook - Jim forces himself to lie. It’s his duty as Captain, after all. Emotional support and all that. 

Maybe if he lies enough, he’ll believe himself.

In either case, Chekov clearly doesn’t. But the young physicist takes one look at Jim’s drawn face and simply leans against the wall. Instead of pressing, he opts for a simple, “Vhat happened originally?” 

“His injury was reopened,” Nyota explains briskly, words concise and clear. “Whatever impaled him on Krall’s planet, it was never fully removed. Apparently, he... he told Doctor McCoy he was going to rest, and just didn’t.”

Chekov shakes his head disbelievingly. “Vhat was he doing instead?” 

“Paperwork,” Jim bites. There it is again, that sting of self-loathing. “My job, McCoy’s, his own, half the command staff’s. Apparently, he didn’t think it logical to take a nap before literally working himself to death.” 

“But zhat is -”

“Stupid.” Jim tightens his arms around himself. He’s sulking, he knows, but better to be angry than upset. “Vulcan fool wasn’t thinking.” 

“Vhy, zhen?” 

Jim shrugs. Nyota sighs. “Guess he thought he could handle it.” 

“But zhat is not at all in line with Mr. Spock’s typical thought-patterns.” Chekov frowns. “Ees there nothing else zhat could have happened while were on board, something... I don't know, Keptin. Unnerving? Distracting?” 

Even as Nyota is shaking her head, Jim bites back a curse. “Yes,” he says, more to himself than to Chekov. The Ambassador - Spock would have found out before this whole disaster started since _Bones_ was the one to deliver the news to Jim -

Spock had forwarded him the report, sometime during the maelstrom of work in which his _stupid_ First had immersed himself. 

His entire communicator is shaking. Jim feels like he’s ingested five cups of coffee and a couple pounds of chocolate. He can almost hear a mini-Bones, like one of those cartoon devils, sitting on his shoulder and yelling at him to _sleep_ , dammit. Heh. No can do, Bones.

“Vhat is it, Keptin?”

Jim shakes his head. “Not now, Lieutenant.”

“Keptin -”

“I said not now.” 

Nyota’s eyes flash. Jim can tell, even though his eyes are focused scrolling through pages and pages of reports - all accessed, signed, and filed away neatly, he notes with a clawing agony in his stomach, his First’s meticulous handiwork - to finally land on the Ambassador’s. “Jim, he at least -”

“Please, Nyota.” 

A long, long moment passes, then she nods. “Okay.”

He takes a second to close his eyes, willing his emotions under control, and opens the report. 

Right there, right at the top, is a picture of Ambassador Spock. Jim nearly exits out of the report, it wouldn’t do him any good to read further, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Spock was hurting from this; but Jim swallows around his grief, Kirk stubbornness forcing him to keep reading. 

_Ambassador Spock_ , the title reads detachedly. Then a list of notifications, as though the High Council could summarize Old Spock’s life in a couple of bulletpoints. Age, contributions, clan, Stardate of death. Then, an underlined paragraph below the Stardate catches Jim’s eyes. 

_Ambassador Spock has elected, against the good judgment and holdings of the Vulcan High Council, to release his_ katra. _His will not join the Vulcan collective inside of our Ark. Although this amounts to treason, it will not be remembered from this point forward as a blemish upon his house; for his counterpart, Spock of Vulcan, has not expressed similar desires, and thus will right this injustice._

_However, should the younger decide similarly, this would inevitably cause a disturbance in Surak’s Line; the branch of Spock, son of Sarek, will be struck accordingly from Vulcan memory._

_Ultimately, though, the Council has judged this possibility small; thus, the Council has ruled to accept Ambassador Spock’s decision._

_Upon his death, Ambassador Spock called upon Terran outworlders James T. Kirk and Doctor Leonard H. McCoy, as well as Spock of Vulcan, to receive those gifts which he has elected to pass on._ They should report at the earliest possible convenience, with consideration given for the difficulties in the recent Yorktown disaster, yadda yadda yadda. 

After the Council’s condemnation of Spock - both Spocks - that’s pretty much it. A couple of signatures, the confirmation of the Council, stamps and seals and frilly end-prose. All in all, Jim can’t help himself from thinking, pretty impersonal. What a heartless way to warn someone that deciding one way about their soul will mean wiping them from history forever.

He shuts the window. He no longer needs it - he’s found everything he could possibly want to know. 

Jim knuckles at his eyelids tiredly. He hadn’t thought to check the reports. He’d had no idea that the Ambassador was going let his soul roam for eternity, never finding peace or respite - that Old Spock had consigned himself to eternal solitude, alone in a universe created by his own foolishness, without a captain or a home.

For the second time in his life, Jim really, really wants to punch a Vulcan in the face.

Before he can say anything or do much in the way of reacting, the door opens. The footsteps exiting are much slower than the ones that entered.

“Jim,” Bones’s voice calls. He sounds exhausted. “A word?” 

Bones is beckoning him inside the room, a change of decision which Jim certainly isn’t going to second-guess, however much he still wants to hit someone. Or something. He wobbles unsteadily to his feet. Christine and Jim switch places against the wall, and Jim is pretty sure he’s not imagining a gentle hand brushing against his shoulder. That’s not good.

“Spock’s almost dead,” Bones tells him with all the gentleness of a hammer as the door shuts behind them. Instinctively, both of their voices fall to a whisper in the oppressive quiet of Jim’s quarters. To think that, less than a day ago, his greatest preoccupation was crying to Bones and figuring out how to nick ale from Scotty without the Engineer noticing. “He’d be fine if he could heal himself, but somethin’s in the way.” 

Jim collapses onto the couch. God, how he wished the cushions were still pure white. “What’s wrong?” 

Bones shrugs helplessly. “Wish I knew. I suspect it’s got somethin’ to do with all of our human emotions, that’s gotta be interferin’ with the mental workings up in his pointy-eared head, but I’ve got no idea how to fix it. Even with all of us bein’ out of range for six hours, he’s just gotten worse.” 

“Why call me, then?”

“You ‘n Spock are connected somehow. _Don’t_ deny it, Jim, you understand the pointy-eared bastard much better’n the rest of us mere mortals. You’re the ones that’s gotta get through to ‘im somehow.” 

Jim can’t quite suppress a sharp laugh that worms its way through his lips. “So what am I supposed to do,” he asks incredulously, “sit here and be the epitome of emotionlessness? I don’t know if you somehow missed the past three years, Bones, holed up in your precious Sickbay, but that’s a bit outside my skill set!”

The jab doesn’t even seem to register - Bones just stares at him, waiting for his little temper tantrum to be over, before responding. “Look, I’ve got no idea. To put it lightly, this is a complete farce of a medical procedure - Christine and I improvised with what little we know ‘bout Vulcan anatomy, but the problem is, he’s only half-and-half. There aren’t exactly theses on his inner workings, Jim, physical or mental. All I can tell you is that, given he keeps deterioratin’ as he is, Spock’ll be dead in an hour.” 

“How is it,” Jim asks icily, not allowing the panic at Bones’s ultimatum show on his face, “that you don’t know his anatomy? Did you never once think to scan him?”

The older man doesn’t so much as flinch. “He never let us. Kept sayin’ how he could heal himself if it got necessary. Standin’ on his damn Vulcan pride, I think.” 

Jim shakes his head incredulously, but it does make a horrible, terrible sort of sense - Spock never seemed to get injured, and when he did, he avoided the Sickbay like the Romulan plague, preferring always to retreat to his own quarters for recuperation. Jim hasn’t the faintest what he even does to fix himself up, other than recollections of Spock sitting, motionless, meditating with his eyes open. Granted, he’s pretty familiar with the physical tells of meditation - Jim’d tried a couple of things while Spock was in that state, trying to get him to respond, stopping just short of actually kicking Spock in the side, for science - but as for mental situations? He’s got no idea. Not the faintest clue. 

“What can I do?” 

The words don’t come out nearly as strong as Jim would’ve liked him, but Bones isn’t gonna judge. Instead, the doctor takes a deep breath, blinking quickly, and his lips purse as if suppressing a yawn. “I dunno, Jim.” He rubs his palm over his face, looking older than Jim has ever seen him. “But if anyone’s gonna be able to convince Spock to get over his damn pride and start fixin’ his own head, it’s gonna be you.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“That makes two of us.” Bones stands. “You gotta try somethin’, though. Else... well.” 

"And if nothing works?” 

Bones shakes his head forcefully. “It’ll work.” He pats Jim’s shoulders, conjuring a smile through the sheer force of will, and leaves. 

Jim wants to laugh. It’s a completely illogical, maniacal urge, and one that he can’t seem to suppress. It shakes his shoulders and draws stinging tears from his eyes, a tasteless combination of mirth and hatred.

But he swallows it down. For Spock, at least. Feeling nothing, right? That’s the Vulcan Way or whatever. If he can provide comfort by just... sitting here, doing nothing, great. He’ll do that. Maybe the utter miracle of an illogical human mind being calm and collected will be enough to rouse Spock’s science-driven mind from slumber. Maybe it’ll tempt him to prod at Jim’s brain. For science. 

Five minutes later, Jim is forced to conclude that he is absolute bull at doing nothing. It’s wrong. In his own words, Jim is a man of action - to sit idly while his First Officer withers before his eyes is an idea so abhorrent to his heart and his mind that he physically recoils. 

“All right, Spock,” Jim starts. He stands, nabs a chair from the table at which the three of them had clustered several hours (mere hours? was it not days?) ago, and drags it to Spock’s bedside. “You’re trying to get rid of me, aren’t you. Well, it’s not gonna work. I can see right through you and all those Vulcan-isms of yours.” 

He tries for a laugh and falls short. Still, if cheeriness is what Spock needs, he’ll be lighthearted as fucking balloon. “When you get back, I’m gonna kick your ass in chess. On that day, there will be no mercy from Jim Kirk. It’ll be an all-out war on both sides, y’know, you and your armies of logic against the, quote-unquote, ‘admittedly formidable forces of irrationality and improvisation that characterize my playing style’. It’s gonna be great. I’m gonna enjoy my delicious victory. 

“Then we’re gonna go to Mess and I’ll pick up a piece of cake, just to piss Bones off about complex carbohydrates, and you’re gonna lecture me about my dangerous sugar intake, and I’m gonna ignore both of you and eat it anyway. It’s gonna be delicious. Sweet, sweet revenge. That’ll be just for winning, I get to piss you off by...” By putting himself in danger? It’s probably messed up that endangering his own health is Jim’s idea of a good time. Whatever. “... by broadcasting my joy at all that chocolate. You’d hate that, wouldn’t you. All those reflexive endorphins you just can’t get at.

“Then...” Jim blows out a bit of air, thinking. Happy thoughts. Happy places. “Then we’re gonna sit on the Observation Deck, me ludicrously full of all those complex carbs and sugars you two like to team up against me about, you and Bones stuffed with insults and all those nasty things you say about each other but don’t mean. And we’re gonna talk about the stars. 

“You’re, like, a walking star chart, Spock. I don’t think I’ve met anyone, and this includes astrophysicists, that know the sheer volume of stuff you know about stars. Constellations, average densities, classes, radii - somehow, you’ve got ‘em all stuffed in that head of yours. Having eidetic memory must be a blast, huh? 

“I wonder what else you remember, what other stupid shit we’ve done. Like that one time you tried to teach me the Vulcan nerve pinch in the gym. Man, that made Sulu laugh for months. He almost impaled himself on his own sword despite all that fancy gear he’s got. I was just useless at it. And then - and then that conference where we had to ferry your uncles to Organia. Spock, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that awkward. Or emotionless. You were competing with the Vulcan-y-est of Vulcans, and outdoing ‘em, too. Strange how you’re only awkward when you’re emotionless.” No. Bad Jim. Now is, like, the last time to be pointing out all the flaws in Spock’s Vulcan facade. 

“Except when we told them about the volcano and the Prime Directive.” Jim sighs. Without even consciously realizing what he’s doing, Jim scoots his chair closer and rests his head on Spock’s chest with a dull thunk, careful to avoid the bandages coating Spock’s ribs. It’s like Spock’s donned a white Starfleet uniform instead of his typical blue one.

Jim can feel Spock’s chest rising and falling this way, at least - slow and shallow, but steady. A constant reminder that, however eerie and motionless, his half-Vulcan First is at least still alive. “At that point, you hit some sort of singularity of neutrality. Your face was so expressionless it was eerie. Even your Vulcan groupies noticed. It was tense, man. I don’t think you were sure how to react to that particular recounting, if you were supposed to show gratitude or take it for granted. Y’know, Spock, I never did tell you... no, never mind. Anyway.

“Afterward... I dunno. Maybe we’ll head back to our rooms. Maybe we’ll end up sprawled on the Observation Deck. I’ll wake up to find you meditating with your eyes open and staring all creepily, scaring the heck out of Bones. Or Security finds us -” a watery giggle at the remembrance “- and videotapes us, puts the damned feed on the Sickbay channel for everyone to laugh at their precious COs conked out on the Deck like a buncha teenagers at a sleepover. It’s great having Bones get all angry at them, because he’s hilarious when he’s pissed off. But man, Spock, you’re something to see when you get angry. Oh, of course, anger’s an emotion, right,” Jim corrects himself, rolling his eyes, and he can almost forget that Spock is dying, “but apparently eyebrows contracting in fury is a thing that Vulcans can do, that’s totally acceptable. So is threatening the Medical staff with evisceration upon the release of those pictures. Logical, eminently logical. Bones gets angry different, it wouldn’t be the same - wouldn’t be the same, y’know, if you weren’t there.”

This isn’t working. This isn’t working at all. 

“Damn it, Spock,” he curses into Spock’s side, and in those three words says more than the previous ten minutes of rambling. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to just up and die. And for something so stupid. What, just because you think I can’t handle a bit of work? Dealing with all those stone-faced Admirals, writing up reports, filing off communications, all with bits of metal in your stomach? It’s not worth it, Spock, I’m not...”

His lips is bleeding. Belatedly, Jim realizes he’s biting down on it, hard, and picks his head up to wipe the iron-smelling liquid off of his chin with the back of a shaking hand. Then he wipes his hands on his jeans. His eyes rove over Spock’s face, searching for something, a movement, a twitch, a flicker of recognition - anything - but gets nothing. 

Jim’s voice is heavier than lead. “I don’t get you, Spock. You see something in me. Hell if I know what. Y’know, when we first met, I was pretty convinced you hated me. Then you stayed in Starfleet, and... I never told you this, either -” _no_ , Jim tells himself, _bad idea, don’t start making a list of all the things you never said_ “- but I’m glad you stayed. Really. I’d be dead about a hundred times over if you hadn’t. And then this whole thing with New Vulcan - you stayed, even through that. And all because of... of me? I don’t get it. 

“How did you not realize what was happening, you green-blooded hobgoblin?” He steals Bones’s curse remorselessly. Maybe it’ll trigger something. Some sort of remembrance. Yeah, so he’s grasping at straws, but at least he’s grabbing at something. 

Better to try than remind himself that he’s clueless. That he's flying blind. 

“There’s no way you didn’t know you had something in your chest. And, from what Bones tells me, something messing with your brain, too. Did you think we couldn’t handle it, was that it? We couldn’t deal with the knowledge? Was the _Enterprise_ really so important to you, getting all those repairs done on time?” 

But it wasn’t the _Enterprise_. It never was. It was not for the _Enterprise_ that Spock leapt into a flaming volcano, turned down the chance to rebuild his race (twice), fought through Krall’s ramshackle village-parody with half his side missing. 

“I just don’t get it.” He shuffles himself closer to Spock’s face, unlined and relaxed, smoothed over in the peace of sleep. Then, with cautious, deliberate motions, tucks his hand again behind Spock’s neck, resting the palm against his cheek. Spock’s face is cool, cooler than it should be, like his blood’s decided that moving to his brain just isn’t worth the effort. Maybe, Jim hopes irrationally, it’s going to his heart instead. He’d believe it, if not for the blood lapping around the feet of his chair and crusting over the denim of his pants. 

Except for the gaping hole in Spock’s chest, he could be napping. On rare occasions, Jim catches him taking breaks to sleep, and it’s gotta rank somewhere on Jim’s mental list, Top Ten Cutest Things Ever. In more ways than one, Spock is like a cat - curls up in corners to snooze, hates being moved in his sleep. He even purrs. Vibrates through his uniform and everything. Even if he scares Bones half to death when he comes to visit Jim in Sickbay and ends up on top of the medical equipment or something, it’s hilarious. He’s not even sure how Spock can get all the way up there, on top of the shelves that usually store, y’know, regenerators and bone knitters and all those horrible, wonderful tools that keep his crew breathing. Does Spock just scale the biomonitors on his way up? How on earth is such an uncomfortable and unwieldy sleeping position logical?

He never did ask. 

“You’re an idiot,” he informs Spock quietly. “You, Bones. Pike. Uhura. Scotty, Chekov, Sulu. You see something. Don’t know what, but... something.”

Jim has to stifle a yawn. He’s tired. Spock looks half as tired as Jim. No, a quarter. Jim wishes they could switch places, that he were the one on that makeshift surgery bed made of carpet and pillows instead of his First, that Spock were still breathing. 

Spock would make an excellent Captain. He really would. All that caring behind the granite Vulcan exterior. The Bridge crew has already noticed, and his Physics students knew pretty much since day one. Even the Medical staff makes way for his Vulcan First whenever Jim gets himself injured, anticipating a not-worried-because-that-is-an-emotion Vulcan-style screaming fit within an hour of whenever Jim beams back aboard from a particularly dangerous away mission. 

Plus, Spock’s got no legacy. Whatever he did in command, he’d go down in history as an excellent commander, unblemished by history’s remembrance of any parents. (Provided they don’t hear about Old Spock, anyway.) Not only a brilliant tactician and diplomat, but the right blend of stoic facade and deep-sewn caring to fight his way out of any situation. Sure, he doesn’t have Jim’s imagination, but he’s got Bones and Uhura and the rest of the crew. He’d be fine. 

Jim’s nothing without Spock, not really. What does Jim even bring to the table? Brashness. Overconfidence and arrogance. He’s got nothing on Spock’s unflappable logic. Or his razor-sharp wit. Besides, Jim isn’t even _Jim_. Jim doesn’t even know who Jim is. Jim just knows that Jim was trying to be George. Jim’s not even sure Jim succeeded in becoming George. He’s not sure if the prospect of failure or success scares him more. 

Spock’s what’s important to the _Enterprise_. But Jim... he’s expendable, really. The crew doesn’t need him, and the ship certainly doesn’t. He’s a poster-boy, a scapegoat, a recruitment tool at best. When he dies, no one will miss him. 

When he dies, no one will remember his name. 

With that last, resounding thought ringing around his head, Jim’s eyes close, and he sinks blissfully into darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

Spock is puzzled. 

It is not a feeling to which he is readily accustomed. During his tenure aboard the _Enterprise_ , he could resolve most enigmas with some mental application and the occasional dab of human ingenuity, courtesy of his captain. This is why he and Jim make such a formidable command team. 

But for this scenario, Spock cannot help but feel that even his captain would have not the faintest inkling of a solution.

However, problems are not solved with despair; rather, taking into account all facts. There are several certainties in this situation. First, he is unconscious, or at least, not awake. Second, his recent fall reopened the wound inflicted upon him during the _Enterprise_ ’s voyage into the nebula. Third, and most damningly, the repercussions from this injury are far more serious than he anticipated. 

More precisely, the physical damage inflicted upon his body is quite easily healable. Were Spock functioning at peak capacity, he would be already awake, sniping with Doctor McCoy and attempting in vain to prevent his captain from consuming a Starbase’s worth of chocolate. 

Yet therein lies the issue. There is something wrong, something upsetting his capacity to heal, and even Vulcan meditation techniques cannot identify the root of this problem. 

The mindscape of a Vulcan is their place of rest. It is the location to which they anchor themselves, from which they draw comfort above all else. Since their inception, Spock’s outer mental wards took the shape of a typical Vulcan landscape. Upon beginning meditation, Spock’s feet find themselves greeted by the peaks which dot the plains of Vulcan - _dotted_ , past tense, Spock remembers painfully, ignoring the sympathetic shiver that rings through the ground beneath his boots - eyes opening to rings of sandy plains in every direction, lit with the fiery red light customary of Vulcan sun. In front of him, a path leading into the depths of the highest peak. 

Descent into the mountain does not decrease the ambient brightness, as would seem logical; rather, travelling further into the core of Spock’s mindscape only illuminates further the walls on either side. This is aided not only by the shining orbs of light Spock had installed in the ceiling, but also by pools of lava, crackling and leaping intermittently on either side of the walkway. 

Several thousand steps down the passage - ample time for reflection upon whichever problem has caused Spock such distress as to retreat into his own mind - marks a drastic change in the landscape. The winding passage broadens into a recreation of the Academy, where Spock studied as a young Vulcan. In this ground are the pockmarked indentations of the knowledge-stations characteristic of this learning-place. This space is vast, perfectly circular. Its smooth walls are lined with thousands of disks. While these recorders contain knowledge, this information is not of the sort typical to the compact, finger-width devices. Instead of activating upon touch and spelling out fact after fact, these disks contain recollections of a different type. 

Specifically, memories. 

In simplified terms, it is to this space that Spock can attribute his eidetic memory - every fact which he has learned, every experience of his inside this learning-place of old, is recorded here. Each bit of data has been studiously conserved and carefully maintained so as to retain the perfect, metallic sheen of these memories, even decades after their creation. 

Then the space on either side narrows again, as circles must, the chord that forms the passage through the Academy thinning again to the width which marks the entrance. So the path continues winding down, deeper, growing only brighter and warmer as the descent continues. Where the architecture of the learning-place, engineered specifically to be harmonious with Vulcan’s landscape, fits well with the interior of the mountain, the next destination does not. 

Spock’s childhood home holds memories of his youth. Stern-faced recollections of his father; impressions of his mother’s lyrical voice; fleeting days spent on the sun-warmed sand outside his home. All are stored in polished tomes bound in the traditional Vulcan style, stacked neatly on kitchen counters or lined along a recreation of Sarek’s study or covering the entirety of the kitchen table upon which Spock and his family ate and underneath which I’Chaya slept (and nabbed leftovers). 

Inside Spock’s mindscape, his home is larger still than the Academy in which Spock received his education. The Academy allows Spock to sort through academic troubles, when he retreats to solve a scientific enigma. It is through the Academy which Spock roots briefly for data to aid his calculations of risk or projections of possibility to the Captain; but his home is the recipient of most of his time in meditation. His home, instead of the clinical briskness of the Academy, stores a blend of warm recollections for emotional stability. 

To an unfamiliar eye, the tunnel appears to end where his house begins, a clash of Terran-reminiscent material against the darker, more crimson soils of Vulcan. The continuation of this passage is hidden, closed off by a door, leading to the room that once belonged to Amanda Grayson, in the physical reality of this home once realized on Vulcan. 

Behind this door is Spock’s core. 

In all mindscapes, there is a core. A manifestation of the internal qualities of every being. To have one is common: human minds, however chaotic, contain one as well. Most do not realize their core, most spend their whole lives without even knowing that which keeps them whole. However, some remarkable specimen have become accomplished in the art of meditation. It is common practice among humans - as well as all meditating species - to fixate on a particular place or object of comfort as their anchor.

Due to the limited reach and ability of human minds, this anchor represents their entire mindscape. Some reflect upon space, some imagine themselves in a castle of their own creation, others with a beloved companion, and that is all there is; humans possess neither the time nor mental capacity to expand their mental wards beyond this singular object. Thus, without any additional protection, human minds are easily read and easily breached. 

Originally, Spock’s core was his mother. Later, upon discovering more about Vulcan meditation, he learned his mother was too volatile a true anchor. Not only was she human, but mortal as well. He needed an anchor that would be, unyielding, until the end of time. 

Choosing stars was an act of minor rebellion on Spock’s part. As per his instructor’s suggestion, the stars were indeed immutable, unchangeable; yet they are permanently linked to his mother. It was his mother who introduced him to the stars; it was she who would lay with him on the fields of Vulcan, sweat beading on her brow, and teach him the Vulcan constellations she had memorized for him; it was she who would brave the darkened, moonless nights, Spock and I’Chaya together with her, to whisper to him tales of Terra and the stars visible from its surface.

To her, Spock attributes his fascination with space - its infinite potential, the stars and their ever-reaching spread, the stories written within them by so imaginative a race as his mother’s. Like books, Spock would pluck the stars from the space of his core, in his room (brushing over the sheets of his bed, twinkling from the ceiling, embedded in the walls, sparkling through the windows and above the plains of Vulcan visible outside), and write upon them the tales she whispered to him. 

The precious few memories which find their way to his core do so unconsciously, as is typical. It would be impossible to willingly choose that which makes a being themself; Spock has no control what constitutes his core, only its location. In Spock's core, most foundational memories are the ones imbued with such emotion to forever shame the house of Sarek. The calming lullabies of his mother, giddiness at rare expressions of pride from his father, quiet moments filled with contentment spent curled in I’Chaya’s flank. 

He would guess that, given the admittedly profound influence of the strange humans with whom he serves aboard the _Enterprise_ , his core now holds memories of Starfleet as well. Of Doctor Leonard McCoy and Captain James T. Kirk.

But he does not know. He has not visited that-which-makes-him-whole since the destruction of Vulcan. He knows not how his core appears now. An oversight, perhaps, that he should have rectified long ago; but the scars from Vulcan, from losing his mother, are still too fresh and too raw. 

Directly after the Battle of Vulcan and the disaster with Nero, Spock retreated to his chambers aboard ship. His mindscape required renovation: this much he knew. His room was stacked high with books, precious memories, emotional lessons - nearly all from his mother, glowing faint blue with fond remembrance. 

He could hardly bear to look at them.

Over the course of twelve hours, a half-day’s worth of uninterrupted meditation, Spock moved every single book to the kitchen. (He had awoken to find a blanket draped over his shoulders and an exhausted Chief Medical Officer slumped on Spock’s desk, under the pretense of completing paperwork where he could simultaneously mind his most difficult patient; this memory lies he knows not where, but he can recall it with astounding clarity.) 

His movements were delicate. He did not disturb so much as a mote of dust, maintaining this last, precious recollection of his mother. 

Then he destroyed her room. 

With his memories of Dr. Amanda Grayson carefully hidden away, arranged and hovering like jewels over the kitchen counter, Spock tore her room from his mindscape forever.

And in its place, he installed his core. 

Previously, his core had hovered, detached, where Spock’s own room had been. Now it seemed illogical to hold that-which-makes-him-whole in a place that held no real significance - his room was little more than a resting-place, but the room of his mother bore much of his joy as a child - so there he placed his core. 

Piece-by-piece he moved the stars that were his recollections, tucking the edges of their light neatly behind the door, beaming the constellations onto the walls, removing the brightest from above the kitchen sink and transferring them to the constellations, melding those which shone greatest to three Terran constellations, her favorites, in her memory. 

Beneath, Spock spread the patch of Vulcan ground upon which she had taught Spock and I’Chaya Terran myths, rocky floor smoothed and poking gently at the booted soles of his feet. Spock shut the door behind his painstaking work and locked her away. 

He has not opened this door for three years. He knows little of that-which-makes-him-whole. 

Illogical, eminently so; yet this is what has passed. 

Now, as Spock stands at the entrance of the mindscape that contains his very being, it is cracked. Damaged. 

The material of a mindscape is malleable to the person who created it. Of all things in this place, only memories cannot be easily altered (save with great mental strain). If there is a physical flaw, Spock can fix it. If a wall needs repairing, he can imagine the blemishes gone, and it will smooth. If an object needs dusting, he can conjure a duster and set to work.

But the cracks in the rocks, webbing out in thousands of directions across the undulating hills of sand and through the charred, heat-seared Vulcaiac rock, do not respond to his command. 

Hence Spock’s befuddlement. To say that a disobeyal of this sort is atypical is a colossal understatement; never before has he heard of a refusal so drastic as that of a mindscape refusing to respond to the commands of its maker. He is the master of this place; excepting the unlikely condition that he is not himself, it should respond to him. 

Unless he is dead. This is a possibility, and a strong one. But he hopes, quite illogically, that there is more of an afterlife even for such souls so emotionless as a Vulcan’s than to live forever amongst half-whispered memories. 

Resolving to shelve that particular unnerving thought, Spock sets down the familiar walkway toward the core of his mindscape. Where previously, the long, narrow path to his first destination was comforting in its length, it only serves now to irk him. He can do nothing to alter his path, nothing to increase the illumination or change the composition of the walls or - 

There is a piece of white, gleaming metal jutting from the side of the wall. 

Spock’s confusion magnifies and sharpens. This metal is not whittled, nor dangerous in any way, unless one were a midget with a proclivity for banging one’s head against dull surfaces. Yet it is remarkable, given that this particular type of white metal is very much not native to Vulcan, nor any location which Spock has ever imbued into his mental sanctuary. In fact, this piece of metal appears as though....

Spock shakes his head to rid himself of the illogical conclusions to which his mind is leaping, quite eagerly, and continues to walk. An anomaly he will fix later, once he has discovered the source of this mental stress. 

When he enters the Academy, the anomaly magnifies to a Problem, capital “P” and all. For the floor of the Academy is no longer fully the sturdy black metal of the Academy of Spock’s childhood - rather, it is impure, smushed together with this foreign white metal. 

Splotches of this strange material appear in patches, with no statistical pattern that Spock can discern - the placement appears entirely random. It comes in strips, jutting from the floor and meshing with the black of the Academy’s floor like interlocking fingers. Upon looking up, Spock notices for the first time that this foreign metal has entered also the circular knowledge-stations, covering the holo-projectors with patches like moss. Were this a functioning replica of the Academy, such a disturbance would disrupt knowledge-projections of any sort, rendering the programming of the Academy useless. 

Irrationally unnerved, Spock walks toward the edge of the room, snatching a thin disk at random. He will freely admit to desperation - if this strange mutation in his mindscape has corrupted his memories, he will become an entirely different entity. He will become someone different, someone not-Spock, holding a set of memories which form him that are alien to the him of this moment. Additionally, he will have no way of remembering who he was or what he experienced, will live forever in doubt that his recollections are true. 

There exists a chance, also, of insanity. An internal Bendii Syndrome, but more debilitating, and without a merciful end. 

As Spock brushes a finger along the slim casing of this disk, he is immensely relieved to find that this memory is familiar. With fingers that shake with _something_ human - in this place Spock cannot lie, even to himself, and knows even through denial that there is fear coursing through him, though he wishes it were not so - Spock projects the disk’s recording into the space in front of his eyes. As he skims the text, he hears the voice of the simulation, robotic and melodic, reciting the fundamentals of three-dimensional graphing, of parabolic curves and surfaces, their application in Vulcan life; fifty-three screen-flips later, of warp equations and theories about dimensional transport. 

From this, Spock concludes shakily that his memories are likely intact, or at least not suffering an all-encompassing debilitation. To check, Spock draws a second from the wall - after all, scientific conclusions made with one trial are bogus, prone to error, and require repeating for validation - but the majority of his panic has ebbed. It is intact. 

Spock replaces the disk gently, fingers snapping it in place with far more grace than with which he had retrieved the memory. In an uncomfortably emotional moment of weakness, Spock allows himself to sag against the rows of disks behind him. 

The knowledge-disks themselves are painstakingly labelled and shelved away, organized by time; it would not do to confuse the thoughts of his three-year-old self with that of his twenty-three-year old self. Most are nondescript, identified only by the bland, practical writing lining the longest side. But there are several which seem to gleam, even against the brightness of the Academy. Indeed, these disk-memories contain a light of their own. An importance of sorts. A marker that sets them apart from the others. 

In the Academy, there are several books with this unique gleam. Spock identifies these special few instantly - the unit of stars, the lessons about Terra, bring-your-pet-to-school day (surprisingly, Spock was one of three with a Sehlat for an animal companion); that group of insufferable Vulcan children who found such amusement in tormenting him for his half-human heritage. 

That last disk-memory shines differently from the others. Rather than the faint blue with which his mindscape graces the others, this one shines red. Those in this shade of crimson Spock avoids. These are not those memories which he would prefer to recount. 

His memories remain intact, despite the white blemishes coating the walls and floor and ceiling of the Academy like hives. Spock takes several moments to close his eyes. He folds his hands behind his back, straightens his chest - in his desperation he had nearly folded himself forward, sickeningly eager to discover the source of the damage - and guides himself through basic breathing techniques. 

Another peculiarity of mindscapes: they are places of truth. Lies can be spoken, prevarications as well, but that which is - that which is felt, is known - cannot be hidden. However Spock attempts a facade of cool Vulcan stoicism, he cannot maintain it, fooling not even himself. Here, in this place, he is laid bare. 

The possibility occurs to him, as he draws in his seventh breath through his nose and begins to exhale, that his memories are already altered. Were this the case, were this done by a supremely powerful telepath, Spock would not be able to see the damage. He would not be able to identify the parts of his memories distorted by said hypothetical interference. Though the thought gives him pause, he soon dismisses it - whatever has changed his mindscape, it has all the grace and subtlety of a Terran elephant, breaking so obviously through the rocky walls and tearing white holes in the ceiling. 

Reassured, Spock continues toward his core - and finds, to his dismay, that his home is even more affected than the Academy. 

This infernal white metal has left no corner of his house untouched. It protrudes from the corners, reaches long white fingers outward from the walls, interlaces with the floorboards of his home. 

Spock swallows against a brief flash of righteous-anger, a burst of mystified terror, and feels it anyway. 

Again, he commits himself to calming down. Once this is done, a full cycle of measured breaths later, he checks some of the younger (more tender) memories from his childhood. To his great relief, his extrapolations from the Academy proved correct. Indeed, these memories are similarly untouched. 

Briefly, he glances back toward his childhood. Under the rim of the kitchen table, himself lounging about with I’Chaya; toward the wall flanking the sun-side window, interrupting his parents’ diplomatic calls by bouncing around in the background (as energetically as a Vulcan child can manage without showing a taboo amount of mischievous glee), carefully hidden from the view of the holo-camera; above the sink, attempting to cook this Terran invention known as a “pancake” with his mother while his father sleeps, exhausted from a long night negotiating with a Xanoic embassy; floating serenely in the hallway, himself following his father around the house, puffing out his chest and lengthening his stride and schooling his face into the solid emotionlessness of a true Vulcan.

(Upon revisiting this particular, light cerulean-tinged memory, his additional years of experience detect, for the first time, a hint of amusement twitching at his father’s lips.)

His memories are untouched. What troubles him, now, is the increased disruption deeper into his core. Whatever this disturbance is, it has grown closer since approaching his mother’s room. Thus, it must originate from that place. 

Spock has never heard of a disturbance in the core of a Vulcan so drastic as to radically alter the rest of their mindscape; but then again, he himself is a species unto his own. Theories flit around his head. A poison, perhaps, laced in the metal, corrupting his haven? Unlikely - there are few poisons capable of altering the mind but leaving the memories intact. Besides, those substances utilize, as they must, far more precision than that which created these bulky appearances of white. 

Perhaps he absorbed too fully the mental chaos of Yorktown? It is true that his shields were impaired even before the _Enterprise_ ’s rushed arrival at this Starbase, and the metal does resemble some of the stronger material from which the Yorktown base was created. As his exterior wards were nonfunctional - the mountain’s surface cracked, the hot air of Vulcan cooled to an uncomfortable temperature, the planet’s atmosphere dangerously precarious and open to invasion - some sort of outside interference would be reasonable. 

But again, the issue of his core. Such an invasion would concentrate the protrusions toward the outside, diminishing further in, rather than the inverse. 

Similarly, the sheen of this strange metal could implicate the crew of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_. Such disturbances are mere physical representations of the causes themselves, he reasons, much as the books are representations of his memories, the academy of his scientific progression, his home of his childhood (and the emotional maturity which he gained under the compass of his mother). As the offending material is uncannily similar to that which comprises the _U.S.S. Enterprise_ , a mental assault from one of its crew members could take the shape of the ship herself (especially if said attacker were not of the Bridge crew, someone with whom he associated only in an official capacity, someone with whom he would be familiar only through the ship). However, in a horrifyingly emotional manner, Spock cannot conceive of any of his crewmates mounting such a large-scale assault on the very core of his being. 

And therein lies the second, most pressing problem. As an exterior assault seems more and more unlikely, chances better that this disturbance, whatever it is, emanates from Spock himself. To follow this chain of logic, he himself somehow caused this disturbance. That somehow, this decidedly non-Vulcan material appeared in his mindscape from Spock’s own subconscious - without his permission and, more frighteningly, without his noticing. 

Spock spends several minutes, allowing his mind to run through and derail several hypotheses before deciding that he will make no further headway without evidence to support one of these theories. With a course of action so logically selected, Spock steels himself and reaches for the handle to his mother’s chambers - 

And stops. 

He cannot open the door. 

There is nothing physically obstructing the door. Rather, Spock does not wish to open it, does not wish to witness the desecration of this quasi-gravestone he has created in memory of his mother, and so the door will not open. 

Spock turns from the door, clapping his feet together and staring rigidly at the wall opposite. Despite his best efforts, he cannot steel himself adequately to force himself - to force himself to want to - open the door. 

He is mercifully distracted by this self-recriminating chain of thoughts by the slightest feeling, a brush of contact, against his cheekbone. 

Quite inadvertently, Spock jumps, an alarmingly uncontrolled reaction to an unsuspected stimulus. Here, within his own mind, there should be no one else. But he turns to find nothing but empty space, a door innocently devoid of other life. 

Suitably unnerved, Spock turns in place, eyeing his own mindscape with due suspicion. Just when he begins to believe that he may have imagined the phantom sensation, a wave of grief crashes over his mind, flooding his mindscape with a thick layer of mist, obscuring the familiar features of his own home from view. In a distant part of his mind, yelping and waving a buried flag of self-identity, Spock recognizes that these emotions are not his own; there is someone, or something, requesting - forcing? - access to his mindscape, though he knows not how. 

Spock grits his teeth against the onslaught, locking his knees in place. This should not be possible. It should not be possible for another to gain such ready access to that-which-makes-him-whole. But again, with a fleeting touch like a brush of air against his face, that same phantom sensation appears upon his cheek. The grief turns to something deeper, darker, shuttering the light of his home toward gray. His own, utterly perplexed mind tries on these emotions, shrugging them over his shoulders as he would an outdated coat, to see if they fit; but the sting of emotion against his chest is a self-loathing not his own, uncomfortable and ill-fitting. 

Still, it is somehow warm. Indeed, a paradox unto itself, that these tendrils of pure hatred could be comforting of any sort, and Spock does not understand an iota of these occurrences but they are what is.

This should not be occurring, so close to his core. That emotions of any sort could extend so close to the very concrete of Spock’s being points to an incredibly powerful emotional assault, or - or...

Compatibility. 

Self-loathing, not his own. A warmth, even in the darkest of moments. 

Spock lets a hand of his own drift wondrously up toward his cheekbone. With a deep intake of breath, drawing strength from the flickers of gold that replace the illumination in this now-darkened room, Spock lowers what little remains of the most integral of his mental shields. 

Instantly, the wash of grief buckles and shimmers out of existence, allowing light to once again seep through the fixtures inherent in his childhood Vulcan dwelling. With it flicker away the golden specks floating around the room. They coalesce in front of Spock, centralizing, pulling each other together like magnets, whirling around like a transport beam, forming for the first time a cohesive shape. 

Spock’s breath catches in his throat, and he is not alone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I've just started college, the next chapter(s?) might be a little while coming - also since we don't have wifi just yet, rip. In the meanwhile, enjoy the penultimate!

“What,” breathes the voice of James T. Kirk. 

He is facing away Spock, allowing the half-Vulcan several precious seconds to wipe the residual grief and anger from his face. It is unfortunate that his - that his friend, that mind which is most compatible to his own, could feel such disdain toward himself. The power of those feelings, of that hatred, rocked Spock to his very core. 

Unfortunate is an understatement, Spock corrects himself. Even these many seconds later, he can feel phantom nausea toward himself curling on his tongue, and he cannot imagine how Jim lives with such feelings toward his own being. At that very moment, Spock vows - he will do whatever it takes to alleviate such hatred, no matter the cost. 

“Hello, Jim.” 

Jim whirls around so fast he nearly overbalances on his own two feet. Spock takes several quick steps forward, his carefully-constructed facade of stoicism shattering as he grabs his captain’s arms and ushers him back upright. 

Jim doesn’t even seem to feel Spock’s arms against his own. He is pale, Spock notices, unnaturally so, and he is staring at Spock as though he has never seen him before. Or as though he never expected to see him again. 

“Spock?” Jim asks hoarsely.

Concern, forged entirely within Spock’s own being, wells up in his chest. “It is I.” 

Jim reaches out one trembling hand and plants it firmly against Spock’s chest, starting as it makes contact. “Spock -” the human looks around wildly, as though the confusion emanating palpably from his form could be solved by these surroundings which Jim will not recognize “- what’s happening? What is this place?” 

Spock pauses. _Technically_ , to explain the inner workings of the Vulcan practice of meditation to outworlders amounts to unforgivable treason, but. There is probably an exception clause for _t'hy'la_ in there somewhere, and if there is not, then there should be. Besides, he thinks wryly, it would appear as though Jim Kirk’s penchant for discarding those rules with which he does not agree has rubbed off on his First Officer. 

“This is my mind, Captain.” 

“Your _mind?_ ” 

“Indeed.” 

“Don’t give me that - that -” Jim gesticulates madly, staring at his First with two eyes flashing with anger. “- that ‘indeed’, Spock, what the _hell?_ What were you _thinking?_ ”

Spock does not pretend to be oblivious of the source of his captain’s anger. He had hoped that his absence would not be quite so painful for Jim. “I was endeavoring to aid yourself and Doctor McCoy -”

The polysyllabic stream of sounds that spews from Jim’s mouth appears to be a nonsensical mishmash of about fifty different curses in at least six different languages, three of which are Klingon dialects. This, coupled with the alarming alacrity at which the words leave Jim’s mouth, gives Spock his first true glimpse of just how upset his captain truly is. “Aid? _Aid?_ What exactly was your idea of _aid,_ Mr. Spock? Did you think it would be helpful to literally _work yourself to death?_ What the hell?” 

For the first time, Spock understands the fine distinction between anger and upset. In one, there is nothing but fire-fueled rage; in the second, there is something bitter and harsh, something fearful. He can feel the distinction prickling along his lungs as clearly as if he were Jim himself. Here, in this place, he admits to himself that it is quite un-Vulcan to be able to discern such a difference. 

“That was not my intention,” he begins, but Jim does not let him continue. 

“I don’t give a damn what your _intentions_ were, the problem is what happened! Did it not even cross your brilliant mind _once_ in these past three days to maybe take a break? Did you really think that Vulcan physiology could bring you back from the _dead?”_

Technically, his Vulcan physiology could cope perfectly with the physical damage Spock has sustained, but he wisely refrains from pointing that out just yet. Instead, with an air of experimentation mixed with a small dash of self-preservation, he sends an experimental tendril of calm in Jim’s direction. 

Jim bats it away with furious ease. “Don’t try that, Spock,” his captain growls, glowering murder in the Vulcan’s direction. Suitably ashamed, Spock subsides. “You knew very well you were hurt, and it was somehow _logical_ to work yourself into exhaustion? There’s this thing called work delegation, you know. And despite what you seem to believe, people would be _happy_ to save you the trouble! I know the thought is _improcessable_ in your thick skull, Spock, but some of my crew actually _likes_ you and _doesn’t_ want to see you dead, though heaven knows right now I can’t tell why -”

“Captain -”

“And did you even think about me, damn it, me and Bones, what were we going to think?” Jim barrels right over his attempted interruption. It tears at Spock’s heart to notice the genuine pain in his captain’s eyes, to feel the grief pouring off of him, hidden by layers of acid. “What were you going to do, go back to your room and just - and just _pass out_ , what would we’ve done, Spock? We wouldn’t have even - wouldn’t have even -”

His face locks up and he turns from Spock, just several degrees, clearly fighting for control. 

Spock is torn - he does not know how to deal with a James T. Kirk so enraged at him. The two had skimmed over the incident with the _Narada_ , as that had been toward the beginning of their friendship. Typically, when the captain is this upset, it is toward someone else; never toward Spock himself. 

He finds he does not like the sensation of having this unique human so angry with him. 

It becomes clear that Jim has nothing more to say. “I did not think that I would react as I did, Jim.”

“What did you think, exactly?”

“That I would be able to recover -”

“Well, you didn’t, Mr. Spock.” 

The captain’s voice is tired. More resigned than angry. Drained, as though he had grasped all of his anger and shoved it an arm’s length away, muscles quivering and exhausted with the effort of keeping it at bay. Like a spring spent so long stretched that the metal holding together the coils has long since oxidated, turning the outer coating bright red with rust. 

That he can tell all this from voice cues alone? Unlikely. A detached part of himself wonders at the depth of the meld that Jim has somehow unconsciously achieved, that their minds are so in tune as to link so synchronously, effortlessly. 

“Vulcan physiology _is_ capable of healing such damage as that which I sustained.” 

“Yeah, in the wrong configuration.” 

“No, Jim.” Spock suppresses a sigh, instead shifting himself to the left, into the captain’s line of sight. “You misunderstand. There is something wrong with -” he gestures vaguely around him, struggling for a string of Standard words which could accurately convey this place. “- with me.” 

As if for the first time, Jim looks around. It is clear he recognizes none of his surroundings, but he does pick up quickly on the unwelcome intrusion that is this strange white material. Still not looking at Spock, he moves with careful steps through the kitchen that was Spock’s dining-place of old. “This is your mind?”

“Affirmative.” 

“What happened?” 

“I do not know.” 

Jim pauses from where he was squinting at one of the floating books - one with I’Chaya, Spock recognizes fleetingly - and finally, finally, looks at Spock. “You don’t know?” 

“Affirmative.” 

“But this is your mind.”

“Affirmative.” 

“Quit it with the _affirmative_ , Spock,” his captain snaps finally, kneading his knuckles against his temples. “More than one-word answers, please. What’s going on?” 

After a brief moment of hesitation, Spock launches into a condensed explanation of his mindscape. In an effort to not desecrate _every_ existing Vulcan law of propriety, he glosses as best he can over specific meditation techniques and the details of Vulcan practices, describing instead in superficial detail the Academy and his home, the disks and the books. 

At the conclusion of his explanation, Jim falls silent, turning a slow three-sixty, absorbing his surroundings with remarkable calm. When his heels finally click back together, he is able, for the first time in several minutes, to look Spock in the eyes. “So how do we fix it?” 

Spock begins to shrug, but Jim orders “Hypothesize for me, Commander.”

Well, Spock has already spat upon about twenty different ancient taboos. Might as well blow this number, as the charming Terrans put it, ‘out of the water’. There is no doing things by halves where James T. Kirk is concerned. 

A condensed explanation of the core, how one is formed, their occasional usage in human minds. (He wonders, briefly, what forms the captain’s anchor. Whether the captain meditates or not, he possesses one, that which provides him solace in moments of distress. For a fleeting moment Spock is curious - likely the ship, as there are few things in this universe that James T. Kirk loves more than his precious _Enterprise_ \- before such inquisitiveness is overridden by concern.) 

“This is what lies beyond this door, Jim,” he explains, gesturing toward the innocuous portal that had so stubbornly defied his commands to open. “My core.” 

In a display of empathy typical of the captain, Jim does not so much as run his fingers along the door, though he is - as all humans are - tactilely curious. Instead, he scrutinizes it with hands folded behind his back. “What’s it look like now?” 

“I cannot open it,” he confesses softly.

The interminable gaze of James T. Kirk swings toward him. “Why not?” 

Vulcans do not fidget, so Spock does not. “I do not want to.” 

Jim does not even have to ask; instead, he pries Spock’s reluctance from him with his needling gaze. With a sound that is certainly not a sigh, Spock explains, “This room is not mine. It is my mother’s. I...confess that I do not wish to enter, to tarnish what remains of her. To open the door would be to change my memory of her forever. I cannot...I could not bear to find damage, here where it matters most.”

Jim could look no less wounded if Spock had administered a nerve pinch. “I’m sorry.”

“Unnecessary. The fault is not yours.” 

Jim abandons his scrutiny of the door to rejoin Spock in the center of the room. Spock can sense the human’s need to reassure, to offer some gesture of comfort; yet Jim refrains, out of courtesy. It is a gesture that Spock does not miss. “Still. Is there a way to do this without going in?” 

“Negative.” Inhale, exhale. He turns once more to the door. 

To fear that which must pass is illogical; he can no more stop the inevitable than he could pluck Terra out of her orbit, bring low her stars. To survive, he must desecrate that which he recalls of his mother, to face her resting-place for the first time in nine-hundred-sixty-three days, fourteen hours. Death is not an option; to do so would leave behind his captain. 

With the steady, warming presence of this incredible human behind him, Spock clasps his hands behind his back and wills the door open. 

It obliges. He sees white. 

Spock tamps down on the very human urge to curse. Behind him, Jim does not hold so much restraint. He would think this odd, that Jim would so quickly understand the disaster that has manifested inside his core, if not for the fear - his own? - that he can feel permeating throughout the room. 

Where that-which-makes-him-whole was once supported by the smooth red plains characteristic of Vulcan, the ground is now fraught with disruption of the form of that accursed white metal. Scattered around this new footing are odd jutting structures that appear to then fail to make sense, static that resolves briefly to images; but the impressions of pattern dissolve just before he can grasp them. He is hardly aware that he is moving, save the erratic _tap-tap-tap_ of his feet against the metal (which is familiar, somehow, but also different; there is sand between his feet and the floor and it muffles what he could know). 

A sharp burst of pain through his foot commands his attention downward, and alarm shoots through his entire body, shorting out for a brief point-two seconds the synapses that could draw logical conclusions. In his core, there is glass, unprotected and uncovered, left scattered around like the marks on a child’s drawing, clearly able to do harm. 

There is the urge to curse again, and something deeper, something more fearful. Not only has this resting-place of Dr. Amanda Grayson been altered but now it is _dangerous_ , allowing injury.

Reining in his flaring emotions, Spock thinks to look up. 

There are stars. 

This is, in itself, is not alarming. In fact, it is mostly a comfort - that at least this one, integral part of that-which-makes-him-whole has been conserved. However, they number far, far beyond what he had originally placed here. Their sheer multitude presses against the boundaries of his core, straining the invisible ceiling above and the barriers on either side, as if a child’s toy stuffed with too much cotton and bursting at the seams. 

The nigh-upon innumerable carpet of twinkling constellations over his head has some tinged blue, some faint red, as he would expect; but most are bright, burnished gold. A wash of relief suffuses over him to recognize those three Terran constellations that had formed the basis of this tribute to she-who-was-his-mother but there are _so many_ , so many patterns that he did not create, nor did he even know existed. 

He reaches out to one of those which he recognizes, hardly aware that there is a human behind him, witnessing this most intimate of interactions between himself and his core. The first loop in the belt of Orion dances swiftly toward his outstretched palm, _glistening through his fingers as he holds the stars in an outstretched palm, the body of his mother warm against his side even compared to the heat of a Vulcan evening, creating his own story upon her prompting, his own legend to write in the stars, that of a great hero that could bring peace among races; so that no child would feel disparaged, alone, adrift, and through the blue of this recollection his mother’s smile is beaming and untouched._

Then another, and another, and another. All he knows, all he recognizes, all untouched. 

But this particular experiment has been biased toward that for which he already has data. To make a fair conclusion, he must investigate those which he does not already know. Fingers shaking with trepidation, he reaches toward those stars which he knows not - those that glow with a golden hue - and he selects one, the one closest to his head, and _he is on the Bridge, Chekov hovering over his shoulder, engaged in what his snickering captain would call “geeking out” about the conference the two had recently attended; where it is against regulation for a navigator to leave his seat and converse so freely with the First of a starship, neither his captain nor Sulu, who has easily assumed both of their duties, seem to mind, and Spock_ pulls his hands from the memory as if burned. 

These are not memories he has placed here. His designated filing location for new memories is the dining room of his home, especially ones so admittedly emotionally-charged - the joy of conversing with another scientific mind, filled with such contentment, has no place in this core, this temple to Vulcanity and all his parents taught him to be. 

Moving nearly automatically, Spock fumbles along the ground, gaze whirling nearly as quickly as his mind, trying on conjectures and dismissing them with equal rapidity, and his toe rams up against a piece of glass and it is only his Vulcan reflexes that save him from getting a faceful of star, white- _hot and sizzling, spreading through his system, burning out the pain and leaving cool relief, and over his head he can hear Doctor McCoy’s dulcet tones against his captain’s worried voice, something about a stabilizing heartbeat and his own voice, controlled, reassuring both that he is more than capable of sparing the mental facilities to engage in a heated battle of wits against Doctor McCoy despite his injury and intelligent enough to_ stumble backward, heaving for breath, staring at the star as though it were real. 

This is a disaster. This is a complete, unmitigated disaster. Somehow, while he was not looking, these shattered fragments of the _Enterprise_ have commandeered his very core and rendered it effectively useless. More than ever, he is fully, pressingly aware that if he does not resolve this issue, _whatever it is_ , he will die. His punctured lung will fill with blood, his heart will give out, and he will die, and he will leave the _Enterprise_ and Doctor McCoy and Jim behind. 

The worst part? He has no idea what the problem even _is_.

It is pure emotional reaction that drives Spock to slam both palms against an outcrop of white and _push_. He wants it _out_ , he wants the _Enterprise_ out of his mindscape and he wants his impartial Vulcan control back, he wants these strange constellations not made on Vulcan far away from him. He wants to be able to breathe again. 

Faintly, from a very long distance away, he can hear someone calling his name. It is only the familiarity of this voice and the panic ill-concealed in its nuances that pulls Spock out of the deluge of dread threatening to overtake his mind. He had not even noticed how the stars dimmed reflexively, at least until he looks up from where he had squeezed his eyes shut and sees that-which-makes-him-whole far darker than it had been, several minutes previous. 

“Spock?” the voice asks, and Jim is at his shoulder, fingers hovering awkwardly over his back, itching to help but uncertain. 

Spock drags his center of gravity between his ankles, clasps his hands behind his back to hide their shaking. “I am functional.” 

“I don’t believe it, Mister,” he snaps, but the undercurrent of worry in Jim’s voice is clear. Spock shakes his head ruefully; he of all people should know that, in this place, deception is impossible. Especially to one who knows him so well. 

“That-which-makes-me-whole is changed. No longer is mine a cohesive core, Jim. This is why I could not heal myself; there was damage done to the core of who I am that I know not how to fix.” 

Jim turns deathly pale. Spock knows that he should not regret explaining - this particular human would drag an explanation out of him, whether he wanted to give one or not - yet he does, to be the cause of such an aghast expression on his captain’s face. 

With a visible effort, Jim turns to study the damage done. 

Spock does the same. He can conceive of no explanation for an assault of this scale. This unrest - whatever it is - comes from the _Enterprise_ , or something represented as such. Yet there is little that could indicate malice on the part of the starship, and few who could command such power over his own mindscape. He can think of only two - Doctor Leonard McCoy and James T. Kirk. 

And yet for those same reasons - that they could influence him as no other could - he cannot believe that they would intentionally do him such harm. Even were he crippled, without the telepathic abilities that he possesses, he knows instinctively that Doctor McCoy and Jim would never harm him, and would in fact do anything to prevent such an occurrence. 

Given the current state of the purple bruising beneath Jim’s eyelids - a sign of medical and mental unwellness easily extrapolated to both the Doctor and his captain - Spock can infer that, for the past several hours, both have been doing exactly this: fighting to prevent him from falling to further harm. 

If not those two he holds most dear, then what? Perhaps an unconscious invasion, tweaking something within Spock himself that would ripple outward to cause such damage. It is possible that his core would be altered by a change within Spock himself, and however he cannot conceive that the Doctor or his captain would ever mean him harm, it is possible that they have changed Spock fundamentally from the Spock that fought with them to save Terra. 

But for what, then? The love of Starfleet, as shown by their flagship? Unlikely; his love for Starfleet, while not precisely _negligible_ , is tenuous at best. His primary reason for remaining in the ‘Fleet is the company of these remarkable humans that have grown to call him - and he them - family. 

The answer occurs to him at the same moment Jim speaks it aloud. 

“Humanity.” 

Jim turns to him, eyes bright and determined. “It’s humanity, isn’t it? Accepting emotions and all that? Since you had to work through - all that stuff, with Ambassador Spock, the base, your soul, that could’ve prompted something, right?” 

Not the phrasing Spock would have chosen. Were he the one to speak, he would have proposed the idea as _the rebound from a long-attempted repression of that which is undeniable, damage triggered by immense and attempted-concealed emotional trauma;_ but in the end, Jim’s response works just as well. 

“That theory holds merit,” he acknowledges. Despite the sheer illogicality of such sentiments, Spock does not want for this to be the answer. 

He does not want to accept that his human half could be so strong as to disrupt years of Vulcan training. He does not want to accept that his human half could hold such sway over his entire psyche. He is quite comfortable in denial of these facts, thank you universe, and does not wish to see this delicate balance that he has struck thrown into disarray. Even less does he want to acknowledge this fact by rearranging his core to reflect it. 

To do so would concede defeat. To admit that, despite years on Vulcan and the best training the Academy had to offer, Spock can never become that which he strove to be. 

In quite the illogical, human fashion, such a conclusion hurts. It is a curious, physical thing, the tangible pain which humans experience - and he supposes he must include himself in their number, now, he realizes bitterly - upon emotional distress. 

“You okay?” Jim asks, mercifully breaking him from that depressing train of thought. 

“I am fine.” 

“Spock.” Jim’s tone is lightly reprimanding. “That was a rhetorical question. You can’t lie to me, not here.” 

Spock does not want to begin to theorize how Jim picked up on that particular nuisance of mindscapes. “I do not wish it to be so. I do not wish for - that I have so summarily failed.” 

Jim says nothing; he pins his First Officer with an extracting stare, and into the silence Spock can do nothing but continue. He seats himself, cross-legged, on the melded sand-and-metal of that-which-makes-him-whole, and Jim joins him, their shoulders mere inches apart. 

“To alter my mindscape from that which it was would be to admit...to concede defeat to those who predicted that I could never be a child of Vulcan. Since my youth, Jim, I strove to maintain my two halves distinct. To fully realize the Vulcan part of me that valued logic above all else. That which saw emotion as a detraction and buried what little it felt. This was the epitome of that which is Vulcan, and I worked toward it, for...for my entire childhood, Jim.” Spock is not sure what he is feeling - he is not so well-versed in emotions - only that he is feeling, and he hates it. It is sharp and acrid in his stomach, the bitter taste of defeat. 

“To accept that I was wrong would be to prove them right. To cede to those who belittled me. Who spat upon my mother and told her she could never raise a proper child.” 

That, he thinks, is the root of it all. In the eyes of a young half-Vulcan, the pride of his mother was what he wished above all else. He would show her, he had vowed, that he could be perfect. He would make her proud. He would prove them all wrong. 

He failed. 

His voice drops to a whisper. “And what will I become now, Jim? I know so little of emotions, of their expression, and to make them a part of that-which-makes-me-whole...I would not be recognizable. I will become someone entirely different. I will not know myself. I will -” his voice catches, and he will pretend that the burning in his eyes is from the proximity of such brilliant light as that of stars “- I will have failed her.”

Spock had half-expected a change of some sort in his mindscape. That so dramatic a declaration of emotion would change who he was, would somehow worsen the damage, if such a thing were even possible. In a human, Spock would call such expectations _unnecessary pessimism;_ but he is not, so he does not bother to classify what he is feeling. 

He has failed his mother. 

Spock closes his eyes and wishes to be numb.

“That’s the thing about mothers. They’re always proud,” Jim says lightly.

With a great, wrenching effort, Spock opens his eyes, the light of the stars burning painfully against his retina. “You cannot possibly understand -”

“Can’t I?” Jim’s tone loses none of his levity, but Spock feels the undercurrent of tension all the same, as clearly as though it were his own. “Can’t I understand something about letting your parents down?” 

Spock wants to bite off his own tongue. 

There is a shifting of fabric next to his own hunched shoulders, and Jim appears in the peripheries of his vision, posture open and relaxed, as though they were discussing nothing more pressing than the day-to-day status of the ship. Spock does not believe that the projection of calm that trickles into his consciousness is entirely his own. 

“I think there’s a couple of things you’re forgetting, Mr. Spock. Some illogical points in your arguments. I’m going to point them out, if that’s all right.” 

His captain is offering Spock a way out, an opportunity to waste away in his own self-recrimination. 

Jim takes Spock’s silence as the affirmative it was intended. 

“You were always half-human, Spock.” The tone is soft, but no less jarring for the meaning in those gentle words. “Nothing has changed. Even originally, you had your humanity in your core. In the stars, right? And besides even that, you put your core itself in your mother’s room. Wasn’t that the most human, most emotional place you could have put it?

“You don’t need to answer that,” he absolves Spock, sitting up a bit straighter, voice growing more intense. “Evolution is natural. That’s what growing up is all about. You always had these emotions, Spock, you just tried hiding them. And, I mean, you did a pretty good job for a little while. But it was always part of you, your humanity. You just show them differently from us openly-emotional and eminently irrational beings. Accepting that you feel wouldn’t change who you are. You’re still going to be the same half-human, half-Vulcan Spock. You don’t even have to show emotions if you don’t want to.

“This - this incorporation of your humanity, it was always happening. I’m guessing it’s got something to do with me,” and Spock is treated to the wry Kirk Grin, “and maybe something of Bones as well. Accepting that your humanity - that me and Bones - are important isn’t going to change who you are.”

Well, now Spock rather feels like an asshole. 

“Don’t do that. Stop it. Just...” Jim runs a hand through his hair, glancing at the stars as if searching for inspiration. “Look. Those people who belittled you, your mother? _Fuck_ them, Spock, they’re bigots. Even if you _were_ the most stoic of Vulcans they still would have found excuses to make fun of you.” 

Jim is shaking his head. “Your mother loved you, Spock,” he says quietly. “You’re her son, you loved her too. It was obvious. Even to me, when I first met you.” Through their connection, Spock can feel a pang of self-recrimination, the fleeting recollection of determination to drag an emotional reaction out of Spock, whatever the cost. The regret. “Even back then, I knew exactly what you held dearest.”

Spock cannot help the doubt. He opens his mouth to protest, but Jim cuts him off. “No, Spock, listen. This wouldn’t be a...a desecration. In fact, I think she’d appreciate it. It’s illogical, I know, highly emotional, but...she’d be pleased, I think. She loved you for you, Spock, not for the Vulcan you were trying to make yourself.

“That’s the thing about love.” A small grin. “You love for what the other person is, not what you can make them. Not what they can be. What they are, right now.”

Once more, Spock opens his mouth, and finds he has nothing to say in the face of such unwavering candor. He swallows, hard, and manages, “Your logic is surprisingly sound.”  
The response seems inadequate, in the face of such a human outpouring of emotion, but Jim understands. Jim has always understood. 

_T'hy'la_. The thought makes him smile. 

This feels right. To have Jim with him, in that-which-makes-him-whole. To confess to Jim these thoughts which have haunted him for each of his short years of life. 

Yet, despite the turmoil which so recently rushed past his lips, he is calm. It is almost as though Jim has an aura: golden, as befits the captain. It is nothing tangible, nothing that Spock can see; rather, a feeling that curls around him as the captain shifts and thinks. It is warm, like a Vulcan dawn, like cooling spice tea, like a comforting blanket at the end of a long shift. Like a shared coffee down at mess. The feeling, this feeling of Jim, of companionship and rightness, settles in his stomach and stays. 

With the feeling of Jim behind him, Spock stands from the ground. He tilts his head upward, considering the stars. 

Despite their unnerving multitude, they are beautiful. There is an art in the way that their hues blend, to form colors Spock has not seen in years - a deep green of Vulcan winter moss here, a burnished orange of desert-fire there. 

And all around, there are specks of gold that twinkle aimlessly in the sky. Rather than memories, as are their larger, more substantial counterparts, these particles are impressions. Vague, fleeting touches of feeling - of victory, of quiet calm, of amusement, of joy. 

If this is what it means to be human, Spock decides, such a state would be acceptable. Though...it was not truly a change, as Jim has summarily pointed out. 

If this is what it means to be half-human, reconciled between Vulcan and Terra, Spock finds that he does not mind. 

He can feel, with a deep thrumming in his chest, that the moment is now. It is nothing more concrete than a feeling, a “gut instinct”, as his captain would term it. But for once, Spock decides not to question it, and shuts his eyes.

Behind the darkness of his eyelids, he sees an amalgamation of cool white steel and burning, vast space. He breathes steadily, evenly, concentrating on this and only this. 

Seconds trickle by, melting into milliseconds or hours, Spock knows not which. But when he feels - and he cannot put to this feeling a coherent explanation, other than a sentiment - he opens his eyes. 

It is perfect. 

Beneath him shifts the sands of Vulcan, crimson and shifting as ever, whispering warmth to him in the constancy of an invisible breeze. The cool durasteel of the _Enterprise_ has retreated to form several familiar structures. First, the glass which had scattered so precariously throughout his mindscape has transformed itself into one long, smooth strip, mounted upon the white steel that had confounded him for so long. It sits in front of a smooth gradation shining Vulcan rock, imitating the Observation Deck of the _Enterprise_. 

Behind it, a biobed, connected to a faintly thrumming monitor. To its right, the Captain’s chair aboard the bridge; and in the center, Spock’s own Science station. There is a monitor akin to that upon the biobed attached to the armrest of the Captain’s chair, and his own station - instead of the typical readings which he scans and reports - show a gentle, melodious pulsing. As Spock approaches it, feeling something akin to awe, he realizes that it is in perfect time with his own heartbeat. 

And all around him, there are stars. 

Through the diamond-hard window of the Observation Deck, Spock can see, still neatly conserved and perfectly arranged, those three Terran constellations that had so earned his mother’s affection. Feeling an uncanny lack of trepidation, Spock reaches out a curious hand, he finds that he can _run his hands through I’Chaya’s fur, causing him to purr so loudly that the sound echoes through the walls, showing his mother this secret of Sehlat anatomy, delighted that his mother looks so happy, so_ proud _of this accomplishment, beaming at him as though her son is the Vulcan sun and the Terran moon and the galaxies all around, burning bright and beautiful and Spock_ blinks away the suspicious moisture clogging his eyes, a small, contented half-smile pulling at his lips. 

There are stars behind the window, as well, twinkling around the biobed and the chair with a strong coating of gold-and-blue, glinting at him with contentment. In a pace more leisurely, he brushes his fingers idly through the space above the captain’s chair and he is _in one of the Recreation Rooms, reaching for a rook, eyeing his captain with a twinkle in his eye that none can detect save this one remarkable individual, assuring Jim of his inevitable destruction, very much un-Vulcan-ly pleased at the patently human refutation that tumbles from his captain’s mouth, warning Spock to not get so cocky at his own assurance of defeat, for Spock himself_ leans out of the memory, feeling and uncaring of the faint smile growing on his face. 

“It is done.” 

His captain stands slack-jawed in the midst of that-which-makes-him-whole, eyeing his surroundings with something approaching reverence. Though this space is smaller than the Bridge, with the Observation window in front and the door hovering peacefully in back, it feels vast. Infinite. As unending as the stars that stretch in front of their eyes, as concrete as the Vulcan sand lapping around his ankles and warming his whole body. 

Jim approaches his own chair, careful to avoid the gold shimmering above the back of the familiar recreation; then his gaze drifts toward the biobed, then faint but steady pulsing in the background, to the display on Spock’s own monitor. Then, finally, with muted steps, he stands in front of the Observation Deck, ducking out of the way of a splotch of crimson. 

For several minutes, he does nothing but gaze out of the window, drinking in the sight. Spock takes those moments to join his captain, bent over the lip of the window and elbows resting on the familiar durasteel. 

Then Jim turns to him, wonder written on every feature. “May I?” 

Spock does not hesitate before nodding solemnly. Already, Jim knows him, down to his very core; he has nothing to fear. 

The third star of Casseopia is the one Jim touches. That memory is a testament to his decidedly non-Vulcan rebellious streak; ironic, that Jim would choose that star over all the rest. Spock recalls the memory as Jim sees it for the first time - denying acceptance to the Vulcan Science Academy, the insult to his mother, spitting a final _live long and prosper_ to the elders who sneered upon his mother. 

Jim is laughing as he pulls his hand away. 

The change that ripples through his mindscape is gradual, and were Spock not so attuned to the changes, he would not notice. It is not something he can see; rather, he feels. It is the very fabric of his mindscape knitting back together, healing itself, sealing the cracks in the walls of the Academy, the shards of the _Enterprise_ rescinding now that they have found a better home, the crevasses lining his recreation of a Vulcan desert molding together, falling inward to create, once more, an unblemished desert. 

“It is time for us to depart, Jim,” he warns his captain, who whirls upon him with panic once more etched on his face. 

“What?” 

“You misunderstand. This does not mean my death, Jim, nor yours. Rather, an awakening.” 

The walls of the _Enterprise_ that cocoon her two senior officers tremble and begin to fade. The effects are now obvious enough that Jim notices, glancing about the room with the barest hint of concern. “Are you gonna be okay?” 

“I will be fine, Jim. The damage has been healed. I will...” Spock shakes his head ruefully. “It is unfortunate that the physical damage will remain as we leave, but I can assure you with confidence that I will recover. I may need several moments to ready myself to return to consciousness, but return I shall.”

His captain still looks a bit skeptical, vestiges of panic and unadulterated grief dancing around the corners of his eyes. Spock bows his head the slightest bit. “I am sorry, Jim.” 

Jim inhales, exhales. “It’s okay, Spock. I trust you.” 

Spock steps forward, sets a hand on his captain’s shoulder. “And I you.”

With his _t'hy'la_ by his side, as he should be, Spock feels himself falling from the mindscape. 

This time, as he exits that-which-makes-him-whole, he leaves the door ajar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to vibrantankles, who has been something of a cheerleader for me over the past few days. Your support means a lot. :)


End file.
